Weightless
by RaptorAssassin
Summary: A wise Krogan once said that the only stories worth telling are those of love, sex, and war. This has all three. A story of provocateurs, confidants, and unhealthy attraction. Mass Effect Noir. Rated MA. Original content and a touch of AU pre & post ME1-3 concerning the secrets, origins, and lives of Jane Shepard and Garrus Vakarian.
1. Prologue: The Lost Girl

Original fanart and other Mass Effect/Weightless related goodies at raptor-assassin dot tumblr dot com

* * *

Prologue: The Lost Girl

The night was red.

Crimson light. The pulsing limbs of a thousand bodies born to dozen species, entwined in lust, in desperation; an ocean of organic life pulsed to the electric heartbeat of Afterlife. Blue skin and silvered fringes, beetle-black eyes, and appendages with indecipherable names. Bodies bathed in sensuous anonymity; all lips and claws and forgotten sobriety, alive and asleep in the writhing diversion.

It was no place for a child.

She cut a soundless swathe through the oscillating hive of depravity; each booted step measured. Deliberate. Unknowing fingers brushed her by chance, but when the eye sought her - just a trace of a scarlet hood, evanescent in the web of forms pairing and posturing in the feverish dark. She reached the edge of the crowd; veiled eyes fixed on the batarian silhouette leaned over in the furthest booth, tilted toward the sensuous forms of the asari dancers on display. An untouched Palaven Sunrise perched glistening at his hand - the code confirmed.

She slid in the booth without a word. He didn't move his many-eyed stare from the azure bodies.

"The bouncers didn't give you a problem then." he stated, detached and condescending.

Two slender hands folded in their fingerless gloves on the gleaming table. She leaned in, her weight balanced firmly on unassuming little wrists. She lifted her head. A ray of blood colored light ghosted across her colorless eyes, which burned like embers beneath her hood.

"Krogan bribes are getting expensive. I'll be needing a charge number."

The batarian snorted a dry laugh, not breaking his gaze on the spectacle of latex before him.

"Not my kind of operation. You'll be paid in cash. Clients, as well as myself, prefer it that way."

She held her penetrative gaze; unyielding and strange against her youth; a piercing stare that weighed more than the handful of her years.

"Not my concern as long as it pays better than the Reds. What's your cut?"

The shaded alien chucked almost coyly at her naivety.

"That depends entirely on you. Perform like shit, and I take more. Snatch some regulars, and well, we can deliberate. Don't worry that sweet little keratin-stranded head of yours – _human_ girls are especially hard to come by, so expect to be fought over."

He turned to face her, setting all four of his glinting black eyes on her as his mouth split into a sharpened yellow smirk.

"You would be amazed at what certain Volus would pay even for common blue ass, let alone something exotic, let alone young. Fortune will undoubtedly be yours, even with my, er, _reasonable_ fee."

He smiled unfalteringly, the strobing light glancing off his offset teeth as they wrought their black words. She glared back at him, her brow hardened, eyes unmoving, divulging nothing. "Now," he remarked, bouncing both palms on the table, "What say you we drink to your new life?"

Her eyes narrowed. She nodded curtly and averted her sight, crossing her arms tightly at her chest in agreement. It was done.

The batarian tilted his near snarling, smirking head abruptly to the side and snorted almost gleefully. _This was going to be painfully easy_, he thought, his ego overflowing with self-satisfaction. He turned his head, caught the eye of the bartender adjacent to them, one of his kin that he knew only too well, and raised two gnarled fingers. Across the distance, the bartender twisted his lips into a subtle, acknowledged grin and began to move his practiced hands, catching the barely imperceptible blink of his accomplices' upper left eye - the finespun sign to fix the second drink with just a slip of extra effort_._

The alien interlaced his phalanges cunningly, tilting his head again in his oily way, drinking her in as she sat as still as stone, determined to keep her glance clean of his."So the Reds just aren't paying the bills anymore, eh? Got loftier goals I take it." he pressed, his voice silky. She continued to glare at the blue dancers, the beat dropping low and tense.

"Actually, I do. Ever since our little "Earth-bound" group decided to start running Hallex off this rock I haven't been able to leave this piece of shit."

"In over your head?" he chided, in a mockery of concern. Her eyes flicked to him, murderous.

"Let's just say the Reds aren't exactly keen on my request for reassignment."

The drinks seem to appear on the table. The batarian wrapped his fingers wryly around his glass without breaking his tensed stare with the young human, his lips still dancing in that awful smile."You want more than they can give, I take it?"

Her eyes blazed into him. "That's one way of saying it."

He chuckled acidly, raising his glass. "Then…to fresh beginnings."

He tilted his glass back and drank deeply. After a moment of iced observation, she followed suit. His many eyes contemplated her, from the many slender fingers that wrapped around the tipped glass to the lips that pursed the crystal rim which poured the poison down her narrow throat. She was already affected before she opened her eyes; her face and body flushed with artificial heat.

She wavered in her seat, hands sluggishly reaching to steady herself amidst the spinning, blurred carcass of her fading consciousness.

"Wh…"

"Shh…" He cooed, now fearless, pushing a thick, brown finger against her lips – enough to push her rag doll body effortlessly against the seat. _So, so easy…barely any sport in it. _His stained smile twisted, filthy teeth glinting, and whispered _"_Shh my little prize…to grandmother's house we go."

* * *

Reality returned in a supine fog.

She needed only to taste the air to know she was no longer in Afterlife. Daring not to open her eyes, she listened, drawing a map with her senses. Oily fabric was beneath her, the harmonic purr of a corvette-class engine, the thick scent of filth and reconstituted oxygen, a shifting ruddy light gliding over her left eyelid from what could only be an observation window. She sensed no bindings.

A satisfied, bragging alien voice, seven meters away, the vibrations of his words cut by what sounded like a thin steel wall. He was pacing, distracted, excitedly recounting the details of his quarry to an unknown voice in the comm unit housed the next partition. She lay still, mastering herself through her breath, each lungful cleansing her gut of fear and her mind of doubt.

_This is it. Whoever is listening…don't fail me now._

The beating drum of her heart rendered down to a controlled metronome; this dance would call for a very specific rhythm. Moving not a hair else, her right eyelid slid open and her eye rolled down, sighting in the position of her captor through the wall in the cross hairs of her mind.

With both eyes open, she made the movement in a soundless slip, and was swallowed beneath the sheer veil of stealth.

"You're going to lose your mind Kharn, she was willing. _Willing!_ It was too simple!...Yes, yes a human female…_Underage my friend, pure as the Noverian snow…_We're going to be rich my friend, very very rich…Oh yes, we're going to start a bidding war of _unprecedented magnitude-_"

When he rounded the corner, that yellow smile slid off of his face and landed heavily somewhere in the now frozen pit of his gut.

His bed was empty.

"…I'll call you back."

He rapped his omnitool violently, snapping off the transmission in mid-conversation and killing the warm orange haze of its given light. He froze in a disbelief that was quickly oxidizing into something more ominous, something closer to fear such that he had to make a conscious effort to push that irrational feeling deep, deep down. His four eyes blazed, searching, brows furrowed, nostrils flared – yet he remained rooted to where he stood in the darkened room.

The girl had literally vanished.

He blinked all of his eyes and shook his head, reality was not fitting into feasibility. He looked again and yet his eyes did not betray him. His expression contorted into and in a flash he stormed across the room and-

THWHACK!

Blinding pain – the ceiling rushing away – falling and BOOM! The batarian crumpled and smashed into the brushed steel floor with a clang before his brain realized he would never walk again, screaming in bloodcurdling agony.

"So…Batarians do have an Achilles tendon…"

He turned his head in abject horror; there was a gun in his face and a knife in her hand. Like a pale demon from a feverish dream, she lay wedged beneath the bed in a long black shadow, her unblinking eyes conflagrant, terrifying and clear.

"Wait – NO!"

Her finger fired. At that range, her Stiletto X detonated the back of his skull like a crimson geyser. The scant remainder of his head hit the floor like a dropped stone. She wasted not a moment tucking the still hot gun into her fly and clawing her way out of the impossibly narrow space through a warm tide of batarian blood. In a flurry of movement she flipped his still pliant corpse over, grabbed his arm and ripped off his omnitool. From a hidden pocket she extracted a small nondescript widget and unfolded it until its metal prongs were revealed, marrying it to the hard data port of the omni-device. His pathetic personal securities split open without a trace of protest. It was favorable; she had little time.

It fit her poorly, but it worked. She crossed the small room in stride, rounding the partition to his personal counsel – working as fast as her hands could move she hacked the counsel and cobbled together a rudimentary bio-scan across the tiny vessel. Only two, batarians again, in the cockpit;she gathered that the ship was a small slave runner under civilian disguise.

Fortune was smiling on her, and she allowed herself a smile back. The girl leaned back and glanced out of the window, and watched the rust colored leviathan of Omega sliding away as the ship took relative altitude.

She so close to free, but there was little time for emotion.

Pulling her hood back over her crimson head, she scanned the ship's simple layout once more, took a breath, raised her pistol, and walked calmly out the sliding doors that opened to the next cycle of her life.

The small figure ghosted through the dark lit vessel, the soundless shadow of death wrapped in a young girl's flesh. The slavers were dead before they turned around, two point blank shots and a cockpit full of blood. She would turn the ship away from Omega, vowing hollowly never to return, and out of the Attican Transverse as fast as she could, thinking for sure she would die as she blasted the ship through the mass relay while barely knowing the controls. She flew to Sol on stolen wings, her system, marked by the rings of Saturn and a small yellow sun that shone on the closest thing she could call a home.

It was already April there, and her birthday was coming soon. She would be 18. In a few days time she would eject the bodies, wipe the deck, and guide the ship to the first Alliance base she could find, to her only option, to her salvation. She told herself she would be the best, that she would change, that she would succeed where she was told her whole life she would fail. Survival had been against her odds since her parentless birth. Death licked her with every breath she took, so what the hell was the difference. She knew nothing else but craft, patience and a few good ways to deal death. She might as well put her atypical education to good use. For the first time in her life, she would come to use the name that was tacked to her infant wrist many years ago in the sunless place where she was left to forge her own future.

Shepard.


	2. Citadel Noir

Chapter 1: Citadel Noir

"_I DON'T CARE_ if he's a Spectre, I can't just sit on my hands while this investigation grinds to a halt!"

He was fuming, plates flared, the cloven toes of his hard boots rapping the ground as he paced. The other turian did not budge; hands artfully folded over the carefully polished desk, gold retinas in their black shroud narrowed. He had "lieutenant" in front of his name now, and that meant he didn't have to put up with any of Garrus Vakarian's insubordinate bullshit.

"Alright _detective_," he hissed, not hiding his condescension, "Let's pretend for a just a moment that the council would actually give you five minutes of their time. You have absolutely zero evidence that would hold up in-"

"The vids, Tiber!" argued Garrus, whipping around, fists clenched with rage.

"_Control yourself!"_

"Saren and Benezia, leaving Illium, Omega, a dozen others! All those missing asaris, gone without a trace and spotted in frame after frame!"

Tiber leaned purposefully back in his chair, looking disgusted.

"Oh yes, your _"vids"._ Your golden little testimonials from every sanded out merc and murderer in the Traverse. I'm sure the Executor would just love to have the sweat of drug addict krogan criminals sullying the witness stand."

It was as if Tiber had struck him. Garrus's shoulders fell, and he looked at his former squad mate with absolute dejection. The hollow feeling of powerlessness had finally struck him, after months of chasing, toiling, submitting forms and scheduling meetings that had gone nowhere. The system that was worshiped by his kind for supporting the heavy shield of justice, held up by the hand of every turian, had shut him out. He was a man ordered to drink from an empty glass, and its hollowness consumed him.

Garrus shook his head, running a hand over his frill, and took a labored breath. He opened his eyes and looked to Tiber, whose hands were still folded, his eyes glaring across his fine new desk, data pads neatly stacked, pictures of his wife and children flashing pleasantly in their expensive frames, just to let everyone know what the picture of a perfect turian life looked like. How many times had they fought together, how many bullets fired, how many glasses emptied, and now it meant less than nothing. The gleam of superiority glassed Tiber's once pensive, calculating gaze with self-indulgence, and in that moment Garrus felt his heart close to him in a sinking tide.

"Spirit be damned you know they wouldn't grant me a warrant. I tried four times. Four times, Tiber." His voice was low, controlled, barely a whisper. He stared into his now superior's pupils, right down to his blue heart. "Maybe, if you look a little deeper into the gleam on that new desk you could tell me why they would give me a case I couldn't solve, and a friend that would let title drown trust."

Azure eyes met citron in the punctured air. Garrus turned his back on him, walking out of his dead friend's office, still fresh with paint, for the first time and the last.

* * *

"You won't find Saren in the bottom of that glass, Vakarian."

Chellick slid into the bar stool next to the defeated officer, staring down the asari stripper who had been hovering near the young turian for tips with a look that would have cracked glass. Garrus chuckled darkly, unmoving.

"Even if he was, Chellick, I wouldn't be able to do a damn thing. I usually appreciate a good pep talk, but not today."

The two turians sat together in silence for a long moment while sensuous feminine limbs moved unnoticed around them. Chellick flicked his deep-set, emerald eye to the young male beside him and observed. His glassy frill was just reaching its fullest length, his plates still silvery, face just barely lined with age, paint carefully drawn. He smelled like youth and gun oil; as serious as a veteran, and as naive as a child. Chellick turned his gaze away and sighed soundlessly, allowing himself to revisit that time in his life in private. He had had years to let the bureaucratic grindstone of C-Sec wear away his resolve; seeing it erode someone so young and who meant so well pained him with profound disappointment. He swallowed and began to talk.

"Actually…"

Garrus rolled a blue eye over, curious at his tone. Chellick stared ahead, painfully aware of the unethical nature of what he would say next.

"There may be someone more sympathetic to your aim than our "glorious leaders."

Garrus raised an eye plate, clasping onto every syllable. "Oh?"

Chellick nodded solemnly, drinking deeply from his glass.

"A friend in traffic control tipped me off…apparently…" he dropped his voice conspiratorially.

"…she's here to see the council…saw something strange on Eden Prime, and allegedly…_Allegedly-"_ he hissed warningly, biting the word, glaring into Garrus's wide, hungry eyes which became alight with reignited life, "- ran across our favorite turian spectre."

Garrus stared, unblinking, the gears of his mind tumbling over themselves, looking for all the world like he wanted to kiss the ground under Chellick's feet, but his mouth was too busy trying to form questions.

"Who is this _"she"_?" he asked softly, heart pounding. Chellick drank again, shiftily looking around the room.

"A human. Alliance personnel."

"_Really?"_ he asked incredulously.

"Mmm. Ever hear the name Shepard?"

Garrus searched his mind, there was something familiar, maybe something he had heard in passing, but just out of reach of clarity. "Maybe, can't recall anything special."

"Well get used to it Vakarian, she's the commander on that fancy new Normandy bird, and rumor is she's up for Spectre candidacy."

"No shit. I didn't think there were any human Spectres." asked Garrus, in intrigued disbelief.

"That's because there aren't. A lot of people are pissed. They don't even have an embassy, so you could imagine the frill-clutching that is happening behind closed doors."

"What's her story?"

Chellick shook his head. "Not much, kind of a mystery. But no matter who you ask, you hear the same thing – apparently she's quite the hardass. Quiet. Survived some kind of fucked up accident somewhere. Oh, and she's reputedly N7, so, you know, nothing serious." he added at the end, openly smirking at his young comrade's borderline ravenous expression.

"And she saw Saren? In the flesh?"

"Mmm."

"_Well where is she?"_ demanded Garrus, eyes burning.

"Dicking around in the presidium, waiting for her hearing. If you run you might be able to catch her, she's supposed to be up there in a little while."

"Shit!" Garrus jumped out of his seat, almost knocking over his glass.

"Hey! You going to pay for that!" barked his bartender, pointing acidly to his half finished drink.

"Calm down, I got it." protested Chellick, waving her in annoyance off with his clawed hand like he would an insect. Garrus started towards the door, moving before thinking, his pulse pounding, until he stopped dead and turned around, amazed at his own stupidity.

"Chellick!" he called back. His comrade turned.

"What's she look like?"

Chellick laughed, genuinely amused.

"I don't know, a human!"

Garrus narrowed his eyes, "Oh come _on_." he demanded, causing Chellick to snicker again at his eagerness. "Not exactly the kind of woman you can miss," he called, catching Vakarian's eye a touch belligerently, and then, just to provoke him, "And she's with a bigass krogan and a pretty boy, in case you're blind _and_ a complete fool."

The young turian was out the door by his last syllable. Chellick settled back into his glass, shaking his head with the equivalent of a small turian smile. He sighed once more and drained his glass.

He felt heavy; he inwardly prayed that he had made the right decision.

* * *

The presidium was empty, and Garrus was running on fumes.

His calves were killing him, the booze still in his blood not exactly assisting him. He had speed-walked throughout the entire perimeter of the massive park, feeling like a complete ass, desperately searching for a decidedly non-descript human female, a krogan, and a "pretty boy", whatever that meant. Adrenaline and slight panic were taking him; after a quick peek through the lower wards, he grit his teeth and caught a fast transit to the Citadel Tower in a last ditch effort to catch his wild goose. He stumbled out of the taxi, still a bit dizzy, but caught himself, turned a corner and –

BANG. Stars sparkled in his pummeled eyes.

- slammed directly into Executor Pallin.

His bleary sight focused. Soul crushing embarrassment, anger, and a whole string of turian swears coursed through his mind, but thankfully, did not reach his mouth.

The Executor brushed his fine clothes off sharply, as if they had been doused in filth. He glowered murderously at Garrus, then caught his scent, and spat dangerously, "_Spirits_, officer, are you _drunk_?"

"Not drunk enough, Executor," breathed Garrus in low rumble, adrenaline flowing through him, the disappointment of his day, his entire career, justifying him into feeling dangerously brave, "Not nearly enough for this charade."

The Executor looked at the slightly disheveled, panting officer before him, stricken by his unfathomable lack of respect. He snorted, shaking his head in complete disbelief, eyes gliding over the paint on Garrus's face with utter shame for this idiot's clan.

"You are absolutely _unbelievable_ Vakarian. Get out of my sight." He went to move around him, but Garrus sidestepped and stood in his path. The Executor's face widened in profound surprise.

"I said get out of my way!" he snarled, his checked masculinity pulsing white hot, pushing the clearly insane, smaller turian aside with a shoulder he had not had to use since long before the appointment of his position. Pallin stormed off towards the base of the tower, but Garrus followed on his heels.

"No! I need a word!" he demanded fiercely, the increasingly shrinking reasonable part of his brain feeling as if he were having an out of body experience.

"I'm on my way to a briefing! It can wait until after I _court marshal you!"_

"Stop!" he called desperately, "I have evidence linking Saren to Matriarch-"

"GARRUS!" he roared, halting in his tracks, whirling around and rearing on the upstart with vengeance. He bored down into Garrus, but the steely officer didn't flinch.

"Saren's hiding something! Give me more time, stall them!" he bitterly plead, fierce eyes searching the bone white paint of the Executor's face which had melted from livid anger to severe disbelief. Pallin snorted out a painful sigh,

"Stall the council? Don't be ridiculous." he sneered in his rumbling baritone. He had read his reports, searched the tiny fraction of data the young turian had scavenged from naught but the most unreliable and illegal sources, and frankly, he was not impressed. He was insulted. Pallin's plated mouth spit out the words he wished he would have had the foresight to loose weeks ago.

"You're investigation is _over_, Garrus."

The world fell as quiet as the void, and as if through someone else's eyes, the Turian watched his superior simply turn his back and walk away, disappearing into the Salarian cherry trees' rose-colored glow that shone in a not quite rose-colored world. He lowered his eyes for a moment, closing them, emotions so shot that he could no longer feel a thing. Breathing, reconciling, he surrendered to the moment and turned to leave.

The eyes of a lithe foreigner stopped him dead in his path, and instantaneously, his body froze; thousands of years of instinct kicking, mind halting – every dextro-wrought cell in his body flared, bracing - reacting exactly as if he had chanced across a deadly predator that could pounce in an instant.

He stared her down, shocked and caught completely off guard, before he realized who she was, before he even registered the mutinous looking krogan and the human male flanking her left and right. His mind slowly whispered the name into his ear, urging him to react, to move.

She didn't flinch once; unblinking, her strange grey retinas piercing him, surveying him, completely unafraid. She stood like a column, but looked as fluid as a river, deceptively powerful, her face a controlled mask which revealed nothing but the clear gaze of an intelligent mind that burned through eyes like white hot stars.

This was the human they called Shepard.

He mastered himself, and forcibly relaxed, the alcohol in his blood lubricating that first step down a path he had never tread before. She did not take quit her gaze.

"Commander Shepard? Garrus Vakarian. I was the officer in charge of the C-Sec investigation into Saren…"


	3. Grey Eyed Pallas

Chapter 2: Grey-Eyed Pallas

_No, she was not a woman you could simply miss._

"Officer Vakarian," said she, her razored gaze still on him, lips gliding easily over the foreign edges of his name, "Anything I should know about?"

Garrus exhaled, beyond tired, breath rolling over the sea-drift wreckage of his frustrations. But her tongue upon his name…there was something nice there. The way her accent played over his identifying syllables, he liked it. In that thin sliver of time he felt the knot between his shoulders lessen. Had he been a fraction more sober, he would have been paralyzed by embarrassment - surely she had seen his tantrum, but had no more care left to waste.

"Saren's a Spectre, most of his activities are classified. I couldn't find anything solid." His cerulean glance slid to the distance, seeing far past the tower's balletic arches. "But I know he's up to something."

Her eyes narrowed at his words, alien and scintillating.

"That's quite a claim for having "nothing solid"." Her voice struck him through his shielded sphere; it was direct, but free of condescension. Deep yet female. He could feel her observing him, those strange lenses searching the very paint upon his plated face, memorizing every twitch and flick. He couldn't blame her – his argument was weak, and in her stead he would have been just as skeptical.

He set his gaze off in the distance, trying to find the words that eluded his still lubricated mind. "It's as you humans say…I feel it in my gut."

Shepard's feline features betrayed her as they shifted into a subtle smile.

"And do you make a habit out of trusting your gut?"

He caught her grey eye.

"Instincts are felt for a purpose. To ignore them is to betray one's nature. I'm a detective commander, if I can't trust myself, well…" he trailed, the harmonics in his voice drifting off.

Her observation remained unbroken. She could tell he was slightly drunk, and she thought about this for a minute, taking it in with his words, and the tone behind them. But after a moment of silence, of considering his intent, she said at last, "I like your style Garrus. You may be the first turian I've ever heard put intuition before empiricism."

He snorted a chuckle, swaggering a bit. "So you've met my father?"

She laughed at this, genuinely entertained.

"Commander, I really hate to interrupt," the dark featured man to her left retorted, sounding not at all as though he was truly sorry, "But our hearing is in one minute."

Shepard's smile vanished beyond a solemn veil. "Yes. Thank you, Kaidan." She looked back to Garrus. The tall being met his eyes once more. After a moment, she tipped her head in his direction, acknowledging him wordlessly. She turned and started down the long passage, the misanthropic looking krogan and the visibly annoyed human male following in her wake.

"Shepard."

Cinders touched deep seas.

"Maybe they'll listen…to you."

"Now wouldn't that be something."

And the woman was gone.

The turian lingered there for a moment, consummate in the windless quiet.

Orange plastic and a buzzing.

Reality called. Mass it seemed, had found him once again.

* * *

"You've made your choice. I won't waste my breath."

"The council has found no evidence of any connection between Saren Arterius and the geth. Ambassador Udina, your petition to have him disbarred from the Spectres has been denied."

_"I'm glad to see justice was served."_

Shepard had not taken her furious gaze from Saren since the moment he came through the comm.

That fucker had killed Nihlus.

They stared into each other unflinchingly.

"This meeting is adjourned."

And just like that, it was over. The ghostly images of the Council, straight and proud, besides their smirking, horn headed golden-child simply vanished. The silence was palpable and deadly.

"It was a mistake bringing you into that hearing, Captain! You and Saren have too much history. It made the council question our motives." Exploded Udina, whirling around to Anderson, his fists clenched.

"_I know Saren. _He's working with the geth for one reason – to exterminate the entire human race. Every colony we have is at risk. Every world we control is in danger...Even Earth isn't safe."

"They won't help us." snapped Shepard, her eyes glowed fiercely as she shifted her gaze from Anderson to Udina. They were arguing like children. The ambassador looked at her crossly, folding his arms, his fist hovering conspiratorially near his mouth.

"As a Spectre, he's virtually untouchable. We need to find some way to expose him."

"That C-Sec investigator…Garrus. We saw him arguing with the executor."

Shepard shot him sidelong glance. Kaidan carefully avoided her sharpened gaze, staring fixedly at Anderson. The eagerness in his tone so conflicted with the impatience he had shown just moments before. It pissed her off.

"What's this all about?" Udina bore down on Shepard, his unobstructed skepticism just adding another layer of bullshit onto already massive pile. Shepard took a deep breath, her face like steel.

"We ran into a turian on the way in here. C-Sec. He was arguing with Executor Pallin, asking for more time for his investigation into Saren. It sounded like he was close to something, but we were interrupted."

"Do you know where to find this Garrus?" asked Anderson, hope woven into his calm baritone.

"No. We met just prior to the hearing. He's probably long gone by now."

Udina's eyes grew a bit darker, those shaded doors recessed so deeply in his scowling face. He glanced temperamentally from Shepard to Anderson, who surveyed him with a careful eye. Finally, as if spitting out poison, he remarked:

"I have a contact in C-Sec who might be able to help us track Garrus down. His name is Harkin."

Anderson's face contorted to somewhere between laughing and swearing.

"Harkin? Forget it. They suspended him last month. Drinking on the job." His eyes met Shepard's and he looked at her a touch sternly. "I won't waste my time with that loser."

_Thanks, Dad._

"Oh you won't have to," shot Udina acidly."I don't want the Council using your past history as an excuse to ignore anything we turn up. Shepard will handle this."

Shepard's eyes flicked to Anderson's, which were as hard as bark.

"The ambassador is right. I need to step aside."

"Yes, now I need to take care of some _business_. Captain, meet me in my office later." The politician marched purposefully out of the room, blending in perfectly with the colorless floor. Anderson turned his head away from Shepard's questioning eyes, and the coals of disappointment within them. In silence, the old Captain lamented the unselfish cloud which had followed him his whole life, and had rained upon all those foolish enough to near him. For now, the kid would have to wait.

"Captain?"

"Not now, Shepard." blocked Anderson, sensing her question. "Now Harkin's probably getting drunk in Chora's Den. It's a dingy little club in the lower wards."

"What about him being a "drunken loser?"

"I suppose at this point it couldn't hurt to go talk to him. Just be_ careful -_

_There's that paternalism again._

- I wouldn't exactly call him reliable. Good luck Shepard, I'll be over in Udina's office if you need anything else."

"_Captain."_

"Not now Shepard. And try and make sure that krogan you picked up doesn't trash my ship."

Her superior straightened himself, pulling on his well worn mask of authority in the place of his true self. With a curt nod he dismissed his commander, her question still burning in his shadow. He faded away, leaving her alone with Kaidan in the cavernous hall. Her companion drew closer, his handsome face drawn in and serious as the grave.

"Ma'am permission to speak freely."

"Proceed."

He shifted his weight, fidgeting over the words."Do you really trust this krogan? I'm not so sure about inviting a dangerous killer on board. It seems…sketchy."

"I see you've been spending time with Lieutenant Williams."

"No Commander, but you have to consider –"

On any other day, she might have been able to appreciate his hesitation, his feedback. She knew open communication made for finer leadership, and although she had learned to practice this theory, she felt the hiss of contempt firing her gut. She was getting sick of having her judgment dissected and examined in microscopic intervals by everyone around her, as if she had just crawled mouth-breathing out of boot camp. Her insubordinate, mocking pilot. Her flaming xenophobe of a gunnery chief. Shepard dreaded the river of shit she was going to get from Ashley once she returned to the Normandy with a ton of krogan merc towing behind her; she didn't need it from Kaidan too.

They went back a long way.

_Seek the enemy of your enemy, and you have a friend._

"Alenko," she snapped,"Do you know what the word "Spectre" means? Allow me to educate you. Saren, on top of being one of the most tactically refined and dangerous military minds in Citadel space has access to and full disclosure of the most advanced weapon resources _to date_. He's got a black budget, legal immunity, oh, and he's flying around in a giant goddamned dreadnaught full of what I can only imagine to be swathes of cutthroat mercenaries that probably outnumber you, me and the lieutenant 50:1. Do I trust Wrex entirely? Not at all. Would I hire one of the last known krogan battle-masters to fight on our side if I had even the slightest chance?"

Kaidan's dark eyes widened, his pained face turning dark red. She was hurting him terribly, but was too in love with her rage to see it.

"Yes, Alenko! The answer is _yes_. Luckily for us, the only payment he's seeking is a pound of some jack-off gangster's flesh and that is a currency that _I just happen to deal in_, _have I made myself clear?_"

"Yes ma'am..."

"Good. Now let's go find us a drunk and a turian."

* * *

She was still fuming when they walked in the club, illuminated in a vengeful gleam.

"These places always hire krogan bouncers," rumbled the enormous headhunter to Shepard as they sauntered in, "I guess we're quite the commodity. Make the place look fancy."

Eyes followed and heads turned as the fierce looking female tread quietly through the pussy pink cesspool of drunks. It was full of men, the most profane of alcoholics who pawed lasciviously at serving girls who left only a florid mist of sickly-sweet perfume in their trade winds as they flitted about. It was dark, the deep bass and the low-lit lamps deadening the senses to better the flow of cash from wallets. Her eyes scanned the space like a predator drone; there were a lot of faces, but it took her only a second to zero in on the loudest, most belligerent asshole in the room – a balding troll in disgraced C-Sec blues occupied with trying to wrestle a bottle out of a server's hands.

_Charmer. _

"HEY! HEY YOU! C'MERE!"

Shepard cut purposefully to him, Kaidan shadowing her closely, but she signaled for him to wait. She walked right up to the man, reclining in a dilapidated booth, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. His watery eyes traveled lasciviously over her long body as he shook his head, clicking his liquored tongue in approval.

"Goddamn girl, I like that hair." he said, eyes hovering on her sleek crimson mane, "You gotta tell me, does the downstairs match?"

Her eyes narrowed into malicious dark slits.

"Where's Garrus?" she asked, her voice dangerously level.

"GARRUS! HA! Is that poor idiot still trying to nail Saren?"

"Maybe. Seen him lately?"

Harkin laughed voraciously, little boozy spit flecks flying out. "You dumb bitch, how many turian assholes do you think there are around here? Garrus, Garrus, mmm, let me think. Is he the one with the face paint and the claws and the stupid head-thing? Oh wait, that's about every asshole in this room." He looked eagerly at her, mouth wide in a grin as he sought her face for shock. To his extreme disappointment, she gazed at him calmly though calculating eyes.

"Harkin," she asked softly, picking up his bottle, surveying it clinically as she turned it in the light.

"Do you know how many pounds of pressure it takes to perforate the human eye? More if applied with a blunt object of course, because the sclera is much more resilient than one would think, but if you have something with a point – "

She smashed the bottle, moving like a lightning strike. He flew back in his seat, his fumbling arms instinctively raised to cover his face. Silence snapped through the room. Shepard slowly turned to Harkin, her eyes glinting, a pleasant smile turning at her lips, the ragged glass shiv glittering in her hand.

"Well, I think you would be sufficiently impressed. Now. Again. Where's Garrus?"

* * *

They briskly cut past the cold blue tableau of the upper wards. White reflections illuminated the hard floor in silver pools, striking passing strangers in pale flashes as the three fighters followed the observation windows streaking down the narrow hall. Tucked in a dead end lay the Med Clinic, marked by a banded door beneath a neon arrow. Without hesitation, Shepard passed her hand along the smooth plate of the access panel. The unassuming door slid open.

Violence struck, sudden and thunderous.

"I didn't tell anyone I swear!" screamed the doctor, her sweat and tears plastering henna rivers of frayed hair down her face, contorted in terror.

"That was smart _Doc,_" sneered her smirking attacker, "Now if Garrus comes around, _you stay smart _and keep your - WHO ARE YOU!"

"DROP HER!" Shepard's pistol flew up, magnetized – then out of thin air a flash of blue, a crest of steel, and a raised Karpov. Boom. Garrus's shot blasted microns past the doctor's head, collapsing her attacker onto the blood splattered floor. Mercenaries exploded out of the dark corners of the clinic, the doctor threw herself to cover as charges ignited the air. Covered by a storm of Wrex's fire, Shepard charged hard to the right, slid over a pass through and lunged at her mark in a blur of fury. Hair flying, body soaring, omnitool unfolding like a flaming sword, the vanguard smashed her arm down in a magnificent blow to completely obliterate the skull beneath her. The lean turian flashed far left, turned on a pin and detonated the throat of a gunman who lunged towards Michele as he dropped to shield her between himself and the wall. A lunging attacker rocketed from the shadows to the window in a biotic hurricane as Kaidan, glowing like a star, smashed him into the shatterproof glass like a ragdoll.

"Clear." glowered Wrex, sounding a bit bored.

Garrus helped the doctor to her feet, steadying her with his free hand, checking her for injury, "Michele, are you hurt?"

"No, I'm ok, thanks to you. All of you." She looked to each of them, wiping the tears still stinging her face.

Garrus turned to the commander, who was coolly examining the bodies. "Perfect timing, Shepard. Gave me a clear shot at that bastard."

"No problem Garrus, you took him down clean. But I would like somebody to explain exactly what just happened. These assholes look like gangbangers." She turned her head to Dr. Michele and locked eyes with her. The Française ran a hand anxiously through her hair and looked wide-eyed at Garrus, who was eying her pointedly.

"They work for Fist...They wanted to shut me up, to keep me from telling you about the quarian. "

Shepard's brow furrowed inquisitively, "The quarian?"

Michele looked to her gravely. "Yes. A few days ago a quarian came by my office. She had been shot, but she wouldn't tell me who did it. I could tell she was scared, probably on the run. She asked me about the Shadow Broker. She said she had information to trade in exchange for a safe place to hide."

"And?"

The doctor sighed painfully, her gaze falling to the ground in profound regret.

"I put her in contact with Fist, he's an agent for the Shadow Broker."

Garrus's facial plates shifted, betrayed.

"Chloe, why didn't you tell me?"

She kept her eyes down, saying nothing. Garrus removed his hand, his voice growing stern.

"If you had, you would know that now he works for Saren, and the Shadow Broker isn't too happy about it."

The doctor laughed bitterly, still avoiding the turian's ice-blue gaze. "Fist betrayed the Shadow Broker ? _Quelle bêtise_, even for him."

_"Pas aussi stupide que vous."_ All turned to Shepard, whose face was calm, but whose eyes were gleaming. _"Où est-il_ ?" Michel hung her head low, utterly shamed.

"In a back room at Chora's Den, last I heard."

Shepard shook her head at the irony of it. "Of course. The quarian must have something good if its worth betraying the Shadow Broker." She glanced at Wrex, who was brooding ominously in the shadows. "I think it's time we payed Fist a visit."

"Good. I'm going to skin him alive."

Garrus eyed the krogan pointedly, putting two and two together. "The Shadow Broker hired a krogan bounty hunter to take him out. I'm guessing that's you."

Wrex snorted, his red eyes glowing with sarcasm, "They always say turians are about as clever as they are deadly."

Kaiden shook his head, which was nervously cradled in his fingers, as he massaged an oncoming migraine in vain. "This just got complicated didn't it?" he asked uselessly to deaf ears. Garrus, unphased, looked to Shepard, who raised her her scarred brow at him. "Look Shepard, this is your show. But I want to catch Saren as bad as you do. I'm coming with you."

She tipped her head back, looking guardedly at the silver-skinned xeno. "Just like that? You don't even know me."

Deep fury crossed his face. "I know enough to guess that I'll get closer to Saren with you, on your ship, than I ever will, here. I couldn't find the evidence I needed in my investigation, but I knew even then what was really going on. The whole thing was a sham, I had my hands tied behind my back with red tape the whole time."

He penetrated her glance, his eyes plutonian in their intensity. Her expression softened infinitesimally.

"When I start something, I finish it, no matter the cost. He's a traitor to the Council and a traitor to my people. Let me join you commander, and I promise you, you won't be sorry. I'll get that bastard if it kills me."

The two strangers looked at each other for a long moment, the others seeming to fade away from them. There, standing across the distance of that cold room, they sensed something in each other, familiar, wordless, and precisely indefinable. He saw in those stormy eyes her answer before her lips could form it, and he knew that right then, his path in life, so carefully planned, had just veered beautifully off course.

"Welcome aboard Garrus."


	4. Some Like It Hot

Chapter 3: Some Like It Hot

_A sparrow, dead and splayed besides her nest, holding a single snow white egg. A horned sphinx with a distorted face, smiling as it lay over a body with a face unseen. A clear blue sky with two strange, out of place moons, hovering oddly over a dense forest into which she could not see. A horned toad fighting a salamander in a pool of thick blue liquid, congealing black at the edges. A beautiful silver weapon of a design she had never seen; long angles, edges, grace. She reached for it, but could not touch. She looked again; a mirrored orb stared back at her, suspended in mid-air, like an eye which bore no reflection. She grew unsettled – it could see her. And then crimson. Crimson everywhere. Muscle and blood, circuitry and fear, overwhelming the universe in an awful roar. Pulling, pulling, as if to sea, the forest shoreline fading…_

* * *

Her eyes opened.

She did not have to look at a clock to know it was unreasonably early. Her skin was soaked in sweat and wreathed with slick tendrils of unruly hair. Pained, she wiped the moisture from her brow with the crook of her elbow and exhaled, eyes closing back shut and begging for more sleep. A sliver of anxiety crept into her gut but she suppressed it with a breath, trying in vain to will herself back to rest, to no avail. She had been dreaming something important, but it evaporated, leaving her lonely, her back in agony as she had slept leaned up against a cold wall in the bowels of engineering for her few hours of rest.

Shepard looked over at Tali's small figure, curled up like a cat in her cot, her narrow chest rising and falling rhythmically. She had finally taken to sleep only after they had talked nearly all night, brainstorming and dissecting the recording of Saren along with the dead Geth's other memories until they passed out from exhaustion. Shepard pulled the thin quilt laminating Tali a little higher up on the girl's tightly suited shoulders, wondering how anyone could find engineering, where the very walls vibrated with the hum of massive tantalus drive core – too quiet. She knew the answer of course; Tali had explained that silence on quarian ships, some of which were still chugging along at the ripe old age of 300, was a death sentence.

It had been three weeks since picking her and the other two xenos up on the Citadel, and since then two women grew close immediately. The mysterious little quarian behind the mirror-mask had proven in the back alley where they found her that she was far more dangerous than she appeared. An artist with a shotgun and a genius with an omnitool, Tali'Zorah nar Rayya had given them their first big break with the information salvaged from her Geth memory core. Once aboard she had gone to work immediately, ingraining herself with the other engineers who grew to adore her; working long hours scanning odd planets and passing debris with an eye for detail that was unrivaled in the rest of the crew. In those three weeks alone she had netted them 700,000 credits in salvage and rare mineral claims. (Joker remarked that if she asked to stop the Normandy one more time he would pull her mask off and cough on her. Tali rebuked that this would require him to get out of his chair without getting a stress fracture first.)

Shepard stroked the roughspun silk on the little quarian's hood as she slept, listening to the whispers of breath sifting through her air filter. Her heart swelled with emotion as she saw her own face reflected in Tali's mask, which, like her own features, often gave nothing away. She wondered if the girl was lonely, if she missed her home, to what extent she had been offended when, not even a week aboard the ship, the baseless rumor spread among the humans that the "little gypsy" was a spy and a thief. It was hard for the newly appointed captain not to see herself in the engineer, the veiled enigma with a face unseen, cut off and alone in the dark universe.

Something inside her had changed since touching that Prothean stone, a stupid decision that could have gotten her killed. She had been having the worst migraines since, but she had darker worries. She had slowly come to believe that the beacon on Eden Prime had transmuted her already peculiar night time visions into a chaotic chore as the urgent task to find the Conduit haunted her thoughts.

She dared not utter a word of it to Chakwas. That woman seemed severe enough as it was, and she was still too ashamed of her behavior on the Citadel to look at Kaidan in the eye. He deserved better, but she could not seem to get him alone these days to apologize. But it was happening weekly now; strange red dreams and then her eyes would simply open, her body fully awake, while her mind thirsted for the sleep that gave her brain an escape from the onslaught of choices that pinned her psyche to the Reaper threat.

The threat. The threat that everyone was denying.

The council's skeptical faces flashed before her eyes, followed by Saren's smug, armored expression. She seared with sudden anger. The white-painted face of the Turian councilor materialized in her mind's eye.

_"Our judgement must be based on facts and evidence…not wild imaginings and reckless speculation…"_

_Goddamnit._

She sat up with a start, eyes focused, fists clenched, staring intensely at the floor but not truly seeing it.

_Goddamnit you're right. _

Sleeping was useless, she decided by a landslide, but starting work early was not. Rising to her full height, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and rolled her neck. The commander pulled her back boots back on, grabbed her codex, and slipped out the door soundlessly, leaving Tali in to her rest.

She loved being a soldier. The structure, the constant work, the beating drum of duty and purpose. There was always something to fix, some task to be accomplished. The best parts were the most dangerous, oh she liked her adrenaline, but she, like Tali, sought pleasure even in the mundane. The mechanical nature of maintenance, debriefing, observation and strategy – it kept her mind sharp and calm. She was the most satisfied in movement, inaction wearied her, and thankfully she had been running hard since the day she signed her papers when she turned 18. That is, until they made her a Spectre and a fully fledged naval commander in the same breath. Her days as soldier were over; she was a leader now, with a ship on her shoulders and an entire crew depending on her. She welcomed it solemnly. But there was a feeling she could not shake, a touch of negativity that left a shadow on her heart, as guarded as she tried to pretend that it was, but for now, she shut it out, to be forgotten with her dreams.

A crimson orb glowed in the near pitch black of the garage as Wrex slowly opened a single eye when Shepard entered the room. He was leaned up against the back wall, arms crossed, sleeping where he stood in a corner facing the door. Shepard raised a finger to her lips and pointed towards the exit. The battle-scarred mercenary, always on guard, grumbled an approving sound and slid his watchful eye back shut, looking like a sleeping monster in the dark. He had been almost pleasant with her since she had personally delivered his lost ancestral armor to him, wrapped carefully in a Tuchankan flag within an ammo crate. It was her first action as the new captain of the SSV Normandy. She remembered the indecipherable look upon his deep-lined face as she laid the box at his feet, never breaking her silent gaze with him as she bowed her head with the deepest respect, and left the old krogan alone in the dark room without saying a word. Wars, she truly believed, were won with trust, not charges, for former was far rarer than the latter. And besides, she liked the big bastard.

Shepard took the stairs, as she did whenever she could; she had no patience for that glacial elevator that made every trip a Homeric epic. She jogged up three flights to the command deck, her codex under her arm. The doors opened into the empty room as she briskly walked to the comm unit besides the ethereally glowing galaxy map to update her objectives. It was still the middle of the "night", quiet and peaceful. She glimpsed the diamond lights of the cosmos sparkling in the endless velvet of space on her way back to the stairs; she smiled to herself, feeling profoundly tranquil as she walked the empty halls of her ship while her crew slept safely.

She descended the stairs to the second floor, the taste for coffee in her mouth. Glancing through her codex, she turned a corner towards the mess, but arrived to find that she was not alone. Sitting in the dark, glistening with water and visibly shivering was the Turian, staring out the window at the motionless stars.

"Garrus?" she asked quietly, her eyes adjusting to the dimness.

He tensed, his deep thoughts interrupted. He turned his head with its sharp looking crest and flat, plated profile. His strange, reflective skin caught the starlight against the edges of his black silhouette. He looked embarrassed.

"Commander, you're up early." he said, the chords in his voice wavering as he tried to stifle his trembling.

Shepard walked up gingerly behind him, and touched her fingertips to his shoulder. He was shaking.

"Are you…cold, Vakarian?"

He laughed, his voice phlanging pleasantly, a hair nervous. "I Couldn't sleep, thought I would take a shower. I think there's something wrong with the heating element in the men's bath; the water came out freezing."

Shepard felt a pang of guilt. "Oh. That explains it."

Their eyes met and she sort of fidgeted.

She ran a hand through her messy hair. "Well, actually I was discussing this with Tali. I can't even use my shower because the water comes out practically boiling. She was going to look at it today."

He looked at her enviously, but she could see that he was smiling with his eyes, as was the way with some aliens. They caught the starlight in them and magnified it tenfold - the same electric blue as his perpetual visor. "If you were a Turian, that would be a good problem to have."

"Don't tell me your species is cold-blooded." she remarked, "Then the dinosaur insults would be too easy."

"Dinosaurs were warm blooded, Commander Primate_,_" he jested, catching her eye in his as she smiled, "And so are we. However we have a lot of metal in our skin, which causes us to lose heat quickly. So, suffice it to say, Turians like it hot."

She smiled, the double entendre completely irresistible. "Turians like it hot? _Really?_ Hostile work environment, Garrus, hostile work environment."

"That...went somewhere terrible." he said, burning with embarrassment as she snickered beside him. "It's early, alright? And what are you doing up, anyway?"

"I was up all night bouncing ideas about this Reaper business off nar Rayya. She just fell asleep."

"I can't blame her; it's been an interesting couple of weeks. But I have the feeling Tali is tougher than she lets on."

"Agreed."

The two looked out the window, the starlight illuminating their faces in the infinite night. She glanced down at him again, his impressive, blade-like body still shaking like a leaf. As with the krogan, she was a touch jealous – she wished that she could look that terrifying without even trying. When a krogan or a Turian walks into a room, people think twice. When a humanoid female walks into a room, it either brings out misogyny or perversion, but never intimidation, she felt. Even Asari matriarchs were known by their "fuckability" first and their tactical prowess second.

She wished she had been born a man.

She shook her head, made up her mind, and began to gather her things.

"Come on Vakarian, you look pathetic. _Come on, _let's go soldier. You've earned it."

He looked at her questioningly as she grabbed a mug and an instant coffee cube from the cabinet, and started off down the hall. He rose and followed, catching up to her as she swiped her finger over her codex, activating it as she turned down the corridor toward her quarters. He looked at her incredulously, not believing her kindness.

"Commander, I-"

"This is confidential, Vakarian." she smirked in a sarcastically condescending way, "And don't get too comfortable, I'll be interrogating you after. We haven't had time to fully discuss the details of your investigation since we left the Citadel."

They reached her door, he watched as she swiped a slender finger over the access panel, which welcomed them at her touch.

"You know in C-Sec we usually used much harsher methods to get answers," mused the Turian as he watched her slide into her space from the threshold. The captain's _private_ quarters – it felt sacred to him – a place he was not really allowed to be, like the vault of a bank or a women's bath, coincidentally.

His eyes traveled over the room; her space was pleasant and clean, done in light blues and grey, almost masculine and a touch sparse. Her bed glowed unobtrusively in the far corner, looking neglected. He stole a glance over a long river of black silk strewn upon on the floor, a sumptuous looking robe probably sewn by a Thessian hand. (He had fought through a posh lingerie shop once, a fond memory.)

It was obvious that her desk got all the action, and here was the life in her room. Various mugs were scattered about, emptied entirely, coffee colored rings still striating the centers. Data pads and codices were strewn about in overlapping piles, an alliance tracksuit was slumped over her chair, a model of the Citadel still in its freshly minted box, cast aside unopened beside several enormous bars of chocolate, which sat upon, oddly enough, a towering stack of actual bound books. They looked like they had been around; some made of peeling paper, some with rich leather spines with faded gold letters. He peered through his azure visor to translate the titles, which were of largely obscure ancient human texts, a few that he was familiar with only in passing: _The Illiad, Tao Te Ching, The Art of War, The Book of Five Rings, Julius Ceasar, De l'Art de Persuader_ and a dozen others.

"You mean like harsh lights and two way mirrors? Too old fashioned for me, Vakarian. Now get in that shower before I change my mind." she remarked coolly as she slipped into her chair and leaned over her codex, her finger lazily indicating to the bathroom concealed beside the door.

"Hostile work environment, Commander, hostile work environment."

The small door opened for him into a little steel cell scarcely larger than a closet. He glanced up to see a large shower head suspended from the ceiling with a drain directly beneath it. There was a human styled toilet in the corner beside a tiny basin and a mirror. He stripped off his armor (he never took it off, even to sleep) piece by piece, no small chore as the room was tiny even for a human. Confused, he looked around for a place to put it and saw none.

"Uh, commander?" he called through the door.

"Check by the sink, Garrus."

"Oh. Got it."

He reached over and wrapped a clawed finger through a curved handle on a nondescript metal door beneath her basin. It slid open on a hinge, and he placed the pieces of his armor and underclothes inside. Upon closing, he heard it faintly hum for a few seconds as a powerful UV light disinfected his belongings. He stood there wondering what he was forgetting, until he remembered his visor was still on his face. He removed it and placed it delicately on the sink. It was only then that he felt naked.

Garrus stood beneath the faucet, nervously looking for a button, but the water poured down onto him of its own accord. The room steamed in seconds as the scalding water rushed down over his sharp, angular anatomy. It was, indeed, sweltering – but against his freezing body it felt intensely gratifying. His tight coiled muscles relaxed immediately, and after a few moments all thoughts vanished from his tired brain into the luxurious, simmering vapors. His eyes closed; he steadied himself against the wall with one arm and bowed his crested head, letting the scalding stream travel down the ultra-sensitive skin beneath his cranial frill. The water rolled over his shoulders and in rivulets over the striations of his armored spine. Completely surrendering to its seduction, he slipped into a light sleep as he leaned against the wall like this for a good twenty minutes before the stream switched off on its timer, gently waking him in the still hot sauna. Jettisons of superheated air breezed him dry from unseen vents, leaving him feeling downright pampered as he lazily reached to reassemble his armor and repaint himself.

Still hunched over her various materials, she looked up as the door opened and an immensely tranquil Garrus stalked out of her brightly steaming bath, looking as unwound as she had ever seen him.

"You want a nap now too, I take it?" she played, jabbing her head over to the spacious bed.

"Don't tempt me." he purred, the steam still clinging to him as he composed himself, ambling slowly out, standing opposite her.

"At ease," she laughed, and kicked a roller chair over to him. "We still have a bit before you're on the clock."

"You're in a good mood."

"I like being up this early sometimes, as I'm just a little too delirious to be a ball of nerves quite yet."

He sat his narrow hips down in the chair, which was a touch small for him but he was feeling too good to care. She opened a drawer and pulled out a large, steel thermos with an alliance logo engraved onto it. Placing it on the desk, she tore the plastic off of a mail parcel she grabbed from her shelf and retrieved an exotic looking tin, from which she extracted a silvery bag of exceptionally fragrant petals. He recognized it immediately, watching in silent amazement as she slipped it into the thermos and passed the vessel beneath an elegant hot water heater, producing an admirable serving of Palavenian Jasmine tea.

"Here, this should be safe for you to drink." said Shepard, passing the warm thermos to the Turian, who accepted it gratefully and drank it still scalding, his deep eyes closing peacefully. The woman passed her own mug beneath the water heater, filling the room with the rich scent of Arabica as her coffee dissolved. They sat reposed, savoring and sharing in the rare quiet of a new morning, beautiful even without a sun.

"This stuff is hard to come by off of Palaven," he remarked after some time, his voice low and harmonic, mind drifting. "I haven't had it in years, since I lived at home. My mother liked it. My father always said it was "impractically expensive."

"It is," commented Shepard, sipping her black coffee, "My gift for you and Tali, for all of those mining runs. Some of those planets were a monumental bitch."

They snickered, remembering in tandem.

"And to make up for all those weeks you had to live off of those god-awful emergency dextro-MRE's. With our new-found wealth I arranged for some proper cuisine, for everyone. "

"You spoil us, Commander."

"No. I've gone without long enough to know that small pleasures do not weaken, they strengthen. Eating well is not merely a material pleasure. It is an indispensable factor in the quality of one's life, and in my opinion, vital to morale. I ride my soldiers hard and put them away wet, I can at least make sure they don't go to bed hungry."

He caught her eye with malicious satisfaction, and he smirked as much as his plated face would allow, revealing his pointed teeth. It was her turn to blush - she looked sheepishly away.

"Now there I go butchering metaphors. It looks like you're awkwardness is contagious, Garrus."

"Haaaah. So humans turn red when they are embarrassed as well?" he said, his voice phlanging smugly.

"Shut up." she said, trying to hide her smile behind another drink of coffee, determined not to look at him.

_What the fuck is wrong with me? Get it together! You're acting like an ass!_

She shoved more coffee down her throat, set the mug down and quickly grabbed her codex. She scanned through her notes a bit manically until she came to the talking points she was supposed to be discussing.

"So," she began, suddenly sitting up with an almost regal air, her codex perched on her crossed leg. "You mentioned a while back that you had well founded suspicions against Saren, but no hard evidence. Please explain."

"Well," he said, setting his thermos down, "I did have something. But they were against using it in court. I obtained it, eh, under less than legal circumstances."

Shepard looked up, her scarred brow cocking. "Oh?"

Garrus nodded, feeling her eyes become analytical again. "Yes. I figured the only way we were going to catch someone who was above the law was to go above it ourselves. You can imagine how well that went over."

"They're not exactly keen on flouting regulation over there, even if they need to from a practical standpoint. Bureaucrats."

"Exactly. I had testimonials and in a few cases, footage of Saren and an Asari Matriarch –

"-Benezia. The same woman in the recording."

_"Really?"_

"Yes. The Asari councellor recognized her voice when we played it during our second hearing."

Garrus sat across from her, looking frustrated and exhilarated at the same time. He laughed, with pleasure and bitterness. _Of course._

"So what was so strange about footage of these two together?" ventured Shepard as she began to play devil's advocate, sipping her coffee thoughtfully, "Maybe they're lovers."

"Maybe. But how romantic is Omega?"

"Depends...a lot goes on there. Maybe they wanted privacy."

"But it wasn't just them. If you look at the shots you can see the same Asari faces, about five of them, in the background, no matter where those two are seen together. I dug around the missing persons reports and sure enough, they match the faces of an entire Asari commando unit that fell of the face of the galaxy about a year ago."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

Shepard clasped her long, many fingered hand to her temple, looking deep in thought. Garrus watched her massage the side of her head, those grey eyes glazed over as the mechanics in her head turned in motion.

"Benezia is a spiritual leader…religion, philosophy. Asari commandos…just missing without a trace off active duty...The Geth we've been running into left and right believe that the reapers are the gods of synthetic beings…"

Her eyes flicked to Garrus and pierced him.

"I think its a cult."

They looked at each other, minds synchronized to that thought.

"So Saren is using the Reapers to manipulate the Geth."

"Possibly. Scans indicate unusual activity on Noveria and Feros. Probably Geth." she passed her codex to her partner, who took immediately began to leaf through it. "What's the connection, Garrus?" she asked, leaning back in her chair, watching him put the pieces together with his detective's mind.

"Big money. The Noveria Development Corporation and ExoGeni. So…the Geth have a taste for corporate R&D."

"More like Saren and the Matriarch. Think about it – ExoGeni's whole shtick is their fight to secure intellectual property rights to all those Prothean ruins on Feros. Couple that with NDC's reputation for questionable scientific ethicality and the convenient fact that it technically exists out of Citadel space and –"

"I don't like it, Shepard."

"Me neither."

The exchange of dark glances.

"So what do we do?"

She laughed bleakly. "Just wait, it gets even better. The Matriarch has a daughter."

Garrus leaned back, raising his tea back to his hard plated mouth, shaking his head slowly. "Kaidan was right. This just got complicated…" his sharp eyes met hers. "So...what's the plan?"

Shepard exhaled; graceful eyebrows raised, leaning forward to take her codex back. "We take down Benezia first. Divide and conquer, weaken his resolve. But rushing after a thousand year young biotic master without an tactical edge would be a death sentence. "

"Her daughter…" he realized. "Commander, that's devious."

"No, it's smart. The good Doctor went missing somewhere in Artemis Tau. We find her and interrogate her; she's got to know something. And I want to guess what she has her Ph.D in, just guess."

Garrus shrugged his shoulders, looking in wonder as his CO morphed seamlessly from an unattached logician to a feisty bloodhound. Her personality was getting harder and harder to pin down. She seemed to change every time he got a feel for her.

"No idea." he said, perplexed. Shepard's eyes glistened, and she smiled knowingly.

"Protheans. She's an expert in Protheans."

His mouth opened slightly, in profound astonishment. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. "Shepard…You could have been a very good investigator."

"I like crushing skulls too much. I think I would have gotten fired."

They shared a good laugh, which was interrupted by the pleasant buzzing of every overhead light in the Normandy activating at once as the clock struck 0600.

_"Gooood morning Commander. Another beautiful day in bumfuck Kepler. How are you?"_

Shepard smiled, looking up to the intercom. She had somewhat fallen in love with Joker's bullshit; it was refreshing. It was a relief from the frenzy of her mind.

"I dreamed I didn't have a chickenshit pilot – then you woke me up, sweetheart."

_"Chickenshit? I'm the best in the Navy and you know it! Throw me one where it hurts, Commander"_ rebuked Moreau, his young, scratchy voice booming through the speakers. She shook her head sarcastically, drinking her now cold coffee.

"Your balls are too small of a target. Set a heading for Artemis Tau and put me through the intercom, Joker."

"Aye," laughed the pilot, patching her through.

Garrus drained the last of his tea, surveying her over the top of his thermos as she stretched her lean body, took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she addressed her crew. He could tell she still wasn't used to it.

_"Good morning, Normandy, this is Shepard speaking. All crew report to the mess at 0620 for debriefing. And there will be eggs, people. Real, golden, delicious eggs. Not that protein surrogate shit, and a few surprises for our more exotic staff."_ she added, catching Garrus's eye with a smile. _"First come, first serve. I don't want to hear any bitching later. Shepard, out."_

The intercom switched off, her method had worked – he could already hear people clambering into the halls. Grabbing her mug, she stood, nodded approvingly at him, and they left the room together. Her door slid open into the bright-lit hall, and he fell behind his captain as she walked casually out amongst her crew, coffee and codex in hand, hailed by salutes, a stately figure among the many faces. A tingle on his spine – he turned around. Alenko, still bleary eyed and in his undershirt, had stumbled out of the men's room. Their eyes locked, cold. Kaidan's face tensed in suspicion at the tall Turian, who passed him without a word, as it dawned on the biotic that his captain had not left her room alone.


	5. Rain and Paper

Chapter 4: Rain and Paper

"It always rains here."

The two youths looked out to the beyond from the wet shadows of the sky rise, a derelict relic from the 20th century that had been long since discarded, to the glittering blue spires of Vancouver. It was the middle of the night and they were tired. The boy looked down at the girl, her thin chin in her hand as she stared emptily out to the great city in the distance. Her face was inscrutable. He rolled his eyes deeply, slurping his still steaming noodles.

"You're so negative. You think it doesn't rain out there too?"

"I know it does. That's not what I meant."

He shook his head in dismay as he drained the rest of the cup's salty contents into his mouth before chucking it out of a wide gash in the crumbled wall. It's fate was stories below them, where it fell to clatter into the nameless streets of the French slums.

"Seraph and her deep thoughts. Think you're going to be an academic after you're done with us Reds? I don't know many runners that get into college. Especially around here."

Her lips didn't move. The rain poured on. He turned around, looking at her out of the corner at his eye as he picked noodles out of his teeth with his finger. She merely sat, there in her place in the dark, with that thousand yard stare.

"Hey," he said to her, his voice dropping low. "Are you ok? You're quiet tonight. Well…more than usual."

"I have something to tell you. I don't want you to be angry."

The boy called Ghost smirked, flicking a bit of noodle. "You better not be preggo, Seraph."

Laughing, he sought her face, but there was no smile in return. He couldn't see her eyes through her fringe of blood colored hair and it suddenly discomforted him. She was silent for a long time.

"I'm leaving."

"Yeah, I know. You keep reminding me."

"No. Tomorrow. I'm leaving."

He turned around; pulling off his ragged striped hood, his wet hair glistening darkly above his black lined eyes his which grew both fearful and sharp. He stared at her incredulously – the wiry redhead with the deadened eyes, just sitting there amongst the pieces of the shattered building, watching the storm fail to mute the heavy glow of the metropolis in the distance.

"What the hell are you talking about, Seraph?"

"Don't call me that. It's not my name."

"_What?_ Where is this coming from?"

She gave a small, sad laugh, the black outline of her shoulders jumping slightly as she did. He bored into her, but she looked on, unyielding. She had fallen for his tears before.

"That's the funny thing, Ghost. People have lots of names for me. They call me whatever they like; as long as they get what they want in the end."

He stormed up to her, his gut on fire and his eyes stinging. He stomped a rotting wooden slat, sending splinters flying everywhere. She closed her eyes to shield them, but sat grounded like a rock.

"Don't you get in my face. I gave you fair warning months ago. You never take me seriously."

"Bullshit! What the… WHAT THE FUCK has gotten into you? Where do you even plan on going, huh? _Fucking Pluto?_"

At last she turned her head and they looked into each others eyes. Her look pierced him as he felt his world shattering. He watched, helpless as she raised a single finger, pointing to the exposed sky through the patchwork of broken beams and steel.

"Home."

The word hit him like a hammer. He was shaking, his head moving back and forth, lips parted and breathing heavy as his heart raced as he heard the words but refused to believe them.

"Home. Home…Home!" he opened his arms and looked around theatrically, "_This is your home!_ The fuck is wrong with you? Seraph – Seraph look at me, you can't just leave…me, Seraph…I need you…I can't do this alone…"

Her eyes closed. A single tear fell down her face.

"I don't belong here…" she whispered, her voice hoarse with pressure, "I never did. That's why they threw me away. This," she waved her hands defeatedly at the poverty around them,

"...Was never meant to be."

"…You don't know that…They could still find you…And even , _Seraph please _– what if they died in the war?"

The girl shook her head slowly, pitying his pleas. "Why do people always tell me that? Is it supposed to make me proud? Is it supposed to make it hurt less? Because it doesn't. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't feel like anything...and neither does any of this. I...everything is numb."

He dropped to his knees, shaking with tears, and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him, into his breaking heart.

"Serap-"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT! Don't you get it! If they died in that war they would have told me at the orphanage! The Alliance keeps records, dammit! THEY FUCKING ABANDONED ME OR THEY'RE DEAD! THEY'RE _NEVER _COMING BACK!"

She wiped the tears from her face, spiting them onto the ground.

"…_I hate it here._ And I'm done waiting. I'm getting as far away from this planet as possible…I want more than it can give…Than you can give…And before I die…I have to know what it feels like…"

"What?" he whispered, his face pained, and she slowly looked up at him through matted hair and wounded eyes, which glittered sadly in the dark.

"…weightlessness...Aren't you...ever curious?"

She bowed her head, staring at the ground between her legs. He reached for her, to hold her, to make her warm, something he knew she loved and used to him beg for. The wetness on his young, tired skin shone in the darkness. His knee struck her carrier bag and glanced something hard...odd since they were done with the run and she should have had nothing else to carry. They both became aware of the sound and she reached instinctively to protect it, but years of thieving had trained him well. In a sudden fury, he snatched at what she was hiding, flipped his back to her and ripped the object out of the bag.

"DON'T-"

It was a book; old, hardbound and beaten from use. Fighting her off of him, he twisted around and floored her with a punch to the solar plexus, a trick she had taught him herself. Windless and gasping, she lost her breath as she watched powerless, her soul screaming in a soundless roar as he split open the book and peered into the pages, which buckled into sponge in the pouring rain.

Ships. Graceful fighters drawn in sweeping charcoal curves. Spheres of worlds like marbles; suns painted in makeshift colors, labeled with a fine hand, scrawled facts and statistics in every margin – a massive diagram of the Milky Way, unfinished, marked by a filthy lilac ribbon stolen years ago.

Fingers shaking, he flipped the pages to the thickest part as his eyes raped the paper.

Dozens of clippings from stolen newsprint (a luxury) and propaganda spanning the entirety of the First Contact War. Printout images of turian soldiers sifted from newsreels, what seemed like hundreds of these, carefully cut, stapled, pasted or lovingly sewn into the book's pages– red pen swirls around their weapons and armor with little handwritten call outs of model numbers and specs. And then eventually, the pen marks faded in frequency, and only pictures remained. Dozens and dozens, page after page, captured forever in absolute secret.

"_I see."_

He turned his head, the book quivering in his open hands, as his features contorted in a hatred that defied words.

"You…_you disgust me._ So this is how I find out…I knew you were a pervert, but I never thought you were a traitor."

Her small mouth gaping, she gasped for breath, her body convulsing. She was a fish that had been thrown from its water, and she lay drowning in thin air. He shook his dark head, took a step and whipped the book across the room. It struck a cold concrete like a bomb and broke at the spine, loosening the fragile pages into the downpour, the papers flying out like birds.

"So…your own people were never really good enough for you, were they? You'll see."

He turned his head and looked directly into her pleading eyes feeling nothing for her as she writhed in agony.

"You think you can just leave and be happy? You think there's some grand absolution out there, in the stars? Let me tell you a secret _Seraph_, and you better remember it...It's not better _anywhere else._ _You're a fool._ And you'll be sorry."

He turned away from her, shaking in rage.

"Because you'll never find that green grass. You'll be alone your whole life. You know you will. And you'll die alone, trying to prove me wrong."

He walked out of her life without casting a second glance as she watched,quietly from the tattered floor.

Her tears were lost in the rain.

* * *

Ghosts in the photograph  
never lie'd to me.

I'd be all of that  
I'd be all of that.

A false memory  
would be everything.  
A denial my eminent.

What was that for?  
What was that for?

What would you do  
if you saw spaceships  
over Glasgow?  
Would you fear them?

Every aircraft,  
every camera,  
is a wish that  
wasn't granted.

What was that for?  
What was that for?

Try to be bad.  
Try to be bad.

-Mogwai, Take Me Somewhere Nice


	6. Blood and Fire

Chapter 5: Blood and Fire

The rocket raced past him, so close that the blistering heat seared his fringe. Her wild eyes wide, Ashley met his glance, nodded, and they attacked. Exploding out from behind her cover; he watched her move as if in slow motion. The soldier strafed hard right, her Crossfire SMG singing as it tore apart a helpless geth shock trooper who exploded in a rain of capacitors and metal as he was caught, simultaneously in the asari's biotic lift.

The other geth fell for the distraction, one unit turning instantly to fire at her, sending a rocket blazing, only inches in her wake, but its fiery trajectory divulged the machine's position. His Naginata tightly shouldered, Garrus veered around his cover, raised the sights to his visor, and blasted a double-tap into his target's center of mass, close enough to deem his optic unnecessary. He whipped back around, folding his overheated rifle and replacing it with his Striker in a smooth, practiced motion as charges detonated the stone around him in a shower of shards.

Williams turned, lips parted, and cut down another prime, dodging as hard as a rabbit, flying straight into the center of the stone atrium, trying to lure out the battlemaster. The asari, eyes black and terrible, raised a slender hand and quaked the earth with a surge of biotic power, dimming the electricity as she mowed down a running geth as he lunged for her in midair. Turning on a dime, with absolute grace, she redirected and threw a barrier's blue glow over the charging human as she soared, dark hair flying, gun first into the frenzy of machines.

The turian whirled back out, unloading suppressive fire around her as she drew the machines into the center of the room like poison from a wound – but something was wrong. He glanced, trained eyes searching – no visual on the dangerous krogan. Panic. A blast of a shotgun. Garrus whipped his head left; arcing down the curved perimeter of the arena slid Shepard, stumbling and slipping, clattering to the stone floor as the battlemaster barreled past her in a deadly charge, missing her dodge by millimeters. She smashed and skidded to the ground. The massive beast dug his heels in and skidded to a halt, rearing his huge, bleeding head back to witness the human sprawled upon the ground, unmoving, the distress lights flaring on her utterly depleted armor. The sniper's gut dropped, his blood traded for ice; horror halted his brain as the dying krogan racked his shotgun, stumbled, and raised his thick arms to take aim at point blank.

Time turned to glass; the turian became a hurricane.

_BAM! BAM!_ The krogan jerked his horned head back, blood becoming mist, as the energy pierced his body.

The world slowed to gentle snow. He ran.

_BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM! _

His group was tight but their skulls were concrete – _BAM!BAM!BAM!_

_BAM!_

He fired, and became the charge.

_**BAM!**_

The final shot lined up behind its brothers; the battlemaster crashed to the floor in an awesome wave as a single atom of element zero discharged its potential energy through his spinal column, severing it at the base of his skull.

"_Commander!_"

Garrus fell beside her, his captain sprawled in unnatural angles like rag doll. Deep red blood gleamed horribly from her nose down to her pallid lips which drew no breath – she had taken a blast to the chest. His heart stopped but his hands moved as he dumped medigel onto her, praying.

"_Get up!_"

He took her in his arms, shaking her, lifting her torso off the cold ground.

"_SHEPARD!"_

Her eyes and mouth opened. She gasped shallowly as she came to consciousness, blinded and deafened. He called her name again but she barely heard it. Her glazed eyes focused weakly on his mandible as he dragged her into cover, firing hatefully over his shoulder as destruction rained down around them.

"Shepard GET UP!"

He struck her in the chest, his fist pounding her sternum – she instantly coughed, a plug of her crimson blood splattered onto his plated face. She gasped desperately, the terrible rasping stronger and sharper now as air rushed into her cleared lungs. _"Yes!"_ he exclaimed as her eyes focused, life and thought sparking in them once again.

"Garrus!" she called, her voice wet with blood, teeth stained red - though she recognized him through the azure sting of his irises which blazed inches away from hers.

"Good to have you back, now let's shut down these bastards!"

He shoved her gun into her hand, pulled her to her feet and they reeled to action, side by side, rushing together then splitting apart; turian and human, geth seeking missiles to separate Ashley and Liara from the grip of death. The soldier and the scientist were pressed back to back amongst a litter of spent machines, limbs and wires in awful piles. Cornered by two primes, Williams's rifle glowed red in exhaustion as she furiously tried to fire it, teeth bared and screaming - the two protected only by the shield of the asari's quickly flickering, fading barrier.

Garrus barreled into the machine in point, toppling it to the ground with a headbutt and a blast to the knee, where it fell hands reaching for unseen stability, his barrel tracing its movement until it met its spot, where he coldly shot it down the inlet of its face. Its CPU exploded from the back of its skull in a crystal and silcon crime scene. He turned, gun raised yet useless as Shepard went flying through the air. Her foot met the geth's bent thigh over which she climbed, grabbing its shoulder with her left, omnitool wreathed in buzzing light in her right, screaming in fury and pierced it - coring it through its throat in a merciless rush, tackling it to the ground and tearing its head from the confines of its shoulders. She could swear it was screaming.

She stood, her boots greeting terra, and she smote the head from her weapon. It fell, trailed by a tangle of wires like a nightmarish comet; its demolished body following. Turned away from them, she ran a hand slowly across her gushing nose and lips, chest heaving, and flicked the blood from her wrist, casting an arc of cardinal graffiti upon the ruined ground.

Shepard turned to Ashley, her smudged lips parted to speak but the horrified look on her lieutenant's face stopped her solid.

"Commander we have to leave now! This whole place is gonna blow!"

It was true – the ground and walls shook with vengeance despite the fall of the last geth. The volcano failed them as the entire facility began to rip itself apart in a fury of tremors.

"RUN!"

Massive rocks and broken stones hailed down upon them as they fled for their lives through the sulphurous quake. Racing past the luminous blue field, they tore out of the facility, feet pounding on the shaking catwalk. Dodging the brimstone, the asari, exhausted and atrophied from the fight and her prison, began to fall behind. Shepard grabbed her thin wrist, staining it with human blood, and pulled her to the light. The four burst from the mouth of the mine, beset by broiling heat and hurling earth.

The SSV Normandy SR-1 descended from the ravaged sky like an angel; her gleaming hull mirroring the flare of the setting sun and the gathering flame of the enraged mountain, bathing them in its blistering light. She hovered like a wasp under Joker's surgical hand, powerful and deadly, the messenger of their salvation. The port hatch soared open. Garrus, the fastest runner, hurled himself up onto it, landed on the hard deck. He twisted around on his knee and grabbed Ashley, lifting her to safety. Shepard, in a halo of burning stone, pushed Liara's narrow body up to Garrus as the earth split open and fire poured into the sky. She looked up to him, clear eyes fierce, and they reached for each other, their arms locking as the ground fell away, and he pulled her into the ship through the torrent of burning air. Her flaming hair brushed his face, the strands both silken and stinging in the wind that rushed the cabin as the Normandy stole altitude, rising like a phoenix. She turned her head to look back at the carnage falling beneath them, her body framed by hell; a long strand of that blood colored mane snaked its way into his mouth by accident.

War and sweat. He would never forget its taste.

* * *

Knights, rooks and bishops; the pieces sat still as marble, their many shapes wrought from the coals of distant places, arranged in the round with the queen at their head, her battle-cleaved brow in long fingers. The court jester was heckling again.

"Too close Commander. A few more seconds and we would have been swimming in molten sulphur. The Normandy isn't equipped to deal with exploding volcanoes. They tend to _fry our sensors_ and _melt our hull_. You know, just for future reference."

All eyes were set upon the asari, starved looking and ragged, turning her fingers over and over in the oppressive silence. Walking forward, her heels cleaving the quiet, the commander draped a synthetic fleece around the asari's thin shoulders, knowing her questions would not be as soft.

Liara shook her head, looking up at the Joker's voice darkly.

"We almost died and your pilot is making jokes?"

Shepard set a sharp look upon her. "Joker pulled out asses out of there. He's earned the right to a few bad jokes."

The asari's tired eyes narrowed as she tilted her head, surveying the commander with a clinical eye. "I see. It must be a human thing."

Shepard raised that brow, learned in a way Liara was not, and she knew it. The asari instantly began to backtrack.

"-I don't have a lot of experience dealing with your species, Commander…but I am grateful to you." Her blue features softened, "You saved my life back there. And not just from the volcano. Those geth would have killed me, or dragged me off to Saren."

Kaidan interrupted a touch impatiently, his dark eyes moving from his CO's battered face to the alien in the blanket. "What did Saren want with you? Do you know something about The Conduit?"

Liara flicked her eyes to him and shrugged. "Only that it had something to do with the prothean extinction. That is my real area of expertise." The petite female (or so she appeared) then straightened up in her seat considerably, black smudged eyes alert, the pride in her voice unmasked. "I have spent the last 50 years of my life trying to figure out what happened to them."

"Fifty years?" asked Shepard over her crossed arms, considering. "How old are you exactly?"

The asari fidgeted a little, her soft voice unsure. "I hate to admit it, but I am only a hundred and six."

"Damn," laughed Ashley in a rare humor, shooting Kaidan a look, "I hope I look that good at that age."

Liara's tightened in the slightest superciliousness, "A century may seem like a long time to a short lived species like yours-"

Ashley's face hardened instantly.

"-but among the asari I am barely considered more than a child…That is why my research has not received the attention it deserves. Because of my youth, other asari scholars tend to dismiss my theories on what happened to the protheans."

"I have a theory." said Shepard, watching her closely behind her stony face. The asari inhaled a bit and fidgeted with the blanket once more. "No offense Commander," she said dismissively, "but I have heard _every_ theory there is. The protheans left remarkably little behind. It is almost as if someone did not want the mystery solved. It is as if someone came along after the protheans were gone and they cleansed the galaxy of clues."

"Oh they did." said Shepard in icy calm. "I assume you have heard of the Reapers, the sentient machines. They are what happened to your evidence."

Liara looked at the commander in absolute shock, her smooth face cracked. "The-the Reapers? I have never – what evidence do you have for this?"

Shepard straightened herself purposefully, secretly trying to make herself look as credible as possible. It wasn't easy, as she barely believed it herself. She spoke with a dutiful lack of emotion.

"There was a beacon on Eden Prime." She kept her eyes fixed on Liara, determined not to look at the faces of the rest of the crew, "I believe it burned a vision into my mind." It sounded so crazy when she said it out loud, and this filled her with dread.

Liara's eyes became huge as all of her pretense fell to the floor. Shepard's sharp face pacified.

"I'm still trying to sort out what it all means."

They stared at each other intently, but to Shepard's unadulterated surprise, the scientist began to nod in understanding, her cerulean eyes sparkling with thought.

"Visions…yes that makes sense. The beacons were designed to transmit information directly into the mind of the user. Finding one that still works is exceptional – extremely rare. No wonder the geth attacked Eden Prime, the chance to acquire a beacon, even a badly damaged one, is worth almost any risk…but the beacons were only designed to interact with prothean physiology."

Sheppard's eyes flashed as she felt her stomach drop, threatening her skin with chills. Liara looked at her very seriously.

"I can't believe you aren't dead."

Silence.

"And you still remember it?"

Shepard looked down for the first time, her arms folding back into a tight pretzel. "I said "burned" didn't I?"

Liara shook her head slowly, looking at the commander as if seeing her for the first time.

"Whatever information you received would have been confused. Unclear. I am amazed you are able to make sense of it at all...A lesser mind would have been utterly destroyed by the process."

The room fell to pounding quiet as one by one they looked at their commander, who kept her inscrutable gaze cemented to the ground.

"You must be remarkably strong willed, Commander."

"Ok, this isn't helping us find Saren or the Conduit," snapped Ashley, seizing the room's attention away from Shepard, to her immense relief.

"- I am sorry, you're right. My er, scientific curiosity got the better of me. Unfortunately,"

Ashley bored into her, looking murderous.

"-I do not have any information about the Conduit or Saren."

"_Wonderful. _Good to know we almost died out there for nothing._"_

"Quiet, Williams." said Shepard in a frigid hiss. She flicked her intensified eyes back to Liara, who was still looking at her in a way that made the commander feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Look I don't know what Saren wanted with you, but whatever it is, it must be important. I think we'll all be better off if you come along."

"Thank you, Commander."

Joker's high voice boomed over the comm again, "Yeah, sorry to interrupt Commander, but the council is requesting you. Now."

Shepard visibly sighed, her hand moving to her temple.

"Tell them I need ten."

"They said now."

"Ten."

"Now."

"Ten."

"_Geez, fine!_ Christ."

They all looked at her, she stared back, wondering what the hell they were waiting for. "Everybody out."

They rose and began to shuffle out, griping as they became bottlenecked behind Wrex's massive body, damned if he had to speed up for anyone. She barked out orders to them over their shoulders.

"Liara, report to Dr. Chakwas asap – Williams, take her. _Give me that look again and I'll personally shave that head of yours and throw the hair out the airlock. _Not you Garrus, (he froze like a picture, his heart thunderstruck) you stay right where you are."

Tali turned around, delighted. "Ooo, you're in trouble!" she taunted in an evil whisper, cackling quietly behind a positively seething Ashley, who compulsively re-knotted her bun, muttering in restrained wrath. Garrus glared at the quarian as she slipped out with the rest of them, practically dancing; he was sure she was making faces at him behind that damned mask of hers. The doors slid shut, sealing his fate.

He turned around, feeling as if he was suddenly made of iron. "Something wrong, Commander?"

To his extreme relief, she was pouring herself yet another unnecessary cup of coffee from her trusty friend the thermos; her face exhausted and swollen, but lacking anger. "Calm down, I can't appear to play favorites."

"Oh." He retorted, shocked and feeling extremely awkward. She took zero notice, adding powdered cream with scientific precision.

"Good to know I intimidate you, though. Useful." She mused, sipping thoughtfully. He looked at her, blinking, having no idea if she was joking or not. "But seriously now, you saved my ass back there. It's been literally years since I was KO'd like that. I wanted you to know that I am profoundly thankful that I have you on the team. That was a nice save."

"Everyone falls. I would have done it for anybody."

_What? No! What am I saying – take the compliment, idiot!_

"I know. But it was stupid of me to take on that enemy completely by myself. I have a notoriously bad habit of doing that. You kept an eye on the whole situation while myself and Williams got distracted. You helped us avoid a bad situation to say the least. And again, I am glad to have you on the Normandy."

He forced himself to breathe. "I'm honored. And after a few months here I can honestly say that there is nowhere else that I would rather be."

She smiled, her eyes not breaking from his, and drank her coffee.

"Well," he ventured, feeling playful and brave all of a sudden. "Except for maybe holed up in some lawless wasteland with a pile of kills and Saren in my crosshairs."

She laughed; a merry sound that lit up her face like a lamp, "Can't blame you there. But "lawless wasteland" huh? Careful what you wish for Vakarian, it just might come true."

He chuckled; his voice flanging into a pleased purr, his eyes stealing how soft her face became when she smiled, a thing that was always rare. "But really, I have a mission for you. Confidential of course, between us only. Something to keep those cop skills sharp. Ever do any undercover work, Vakarian?"

"A few times, yeah. What do you have in mind?"

"Williams has been crawling up my ass about this Liara situation from since before we even extracted her. And frankly, she's correct. Despite the doctor's charms, I would be pretty damn stupid to let the only daughter of Saren's right hand woman walk around my ship without a shred of suspicion. I need you to watch her. Close."

"Espionage, mmm. Not too different from sniping. What's your angle?"

"You've got a way with people. You're very popular – everyone on the ship seems to like you. Well, as much as we can expect from Wrex." She added as an afterthought, sipping from her little cup again. "You even won over Alenko and the Williams, and they're a tough crowd. Frankly, I'm impressed."

"Oh. Uh. Thank you."

"Please, I wish I knew your secret. So I need you to use your swagger to woo our asari into talking. A natural leader like you, with your skills and experience, shouldn't have a problem playing the tall, dark, and mysterious card."

Although her tone was militaristic and completely - somehow - devoid of flattery, he felt his insides dissolving into mush against his will. "I mean," she added, drinking that coffee with unfathomable nonchalance, "It works for me. You'd be amazed at what people will admit to an interested stranger."

He gazed at her, fascinated by her Machiavellian subtly, "You ever use that with me?"

"I think that's how we met. And I'm doing it right now."

"Oh. Damn."

"You have much to learn."

"Apparently."

"So," she said, checking watch on her omnitool, "Liara's an academic. She's haughty, sheltered, but she may be starved for contact. Open her by asking about her research. That'll get her comfortable. Now she's hurt, probably more than a little scared, and potentially traumatized, so take your time, listen, and be her friend. Agreed?"

"On it."

"Good." Setting her coffee down, she approached him, taking something from out of her pocket. He watched as her many fingered hand opened like a lotus. Within it lay a small piece of heavy weight paper, folded into a perfect square. "We need to keep our distance so no one gets suspicious. Take this; it's the code for my private terminal."

He looked at her, his eyes electric and searching solicitously. He could not read the attenuated enigma of her expression.

"Reports weekly; I want to know every detail. Send all of it digitally to this address and then destroy the drafts from your terminal. Save nothing, including this note. Report to the brig for the next three days. I'll sneak over something for you to calibrate, I promise. Insubordination, if anyone asks. You'll be compensated shortly."

His deepset gaze kissed her snowy palm, held out, presented to him with its paper secret. He could see long sweeps of red ink gracing its skin, stroked in a foreign tongue, bleeding through its thin white veil. The turian raised his hand slowly from his side; his fingers embraced it, claws barely grazing the lustrous plane of her sacred flesh.

"I won't let you down."

"I know."

* * *

_Holy Foreshadowing, Batman!_

My name is Raptor Assassin, and you guys are my favorite readers on fanfiction dot net. To everyone that offered feedback - I love you. Really. Want to know what a FF reader/raptor baby looks like? CALL ME. Thank you for helping me transition from this being a therapeutic obsession (is there such a thing?) to a vehicle for education. As you can tell, this won't be a straight novelization of ME. I've got...ideas...I love Shepard, and obviously, Garrus. God I love Garrus. I mean, come on. Its not even fair. So I'm smashing those two loves together in a beautiful collision. I hope.

Its basically already written, scrawled in a psychotic hand in one of those weird leftover comp notebooks from high school. It has been been coming to me, scene by scene, for days, and I write it down whenever I can. I was very sad after the last game, and apparently I'm not alone. Somehow, this was born out of that. I, like Garrus, don't want to let you guys down, but please be patient with me. There are clues and allusions everywhere, have fun rooting them out. Hold on to your butts. (I LOVE YOU SAM JACKSON WHY U NO IN MY REAL LIFE?)

Also, may I suggest listening to Skrillex's Bangarang while reading the first portion of this chapter. That is the music it was written to. Yes, I like Skrillex. Deal with it.

R.A.


	7. Tension

Chapter 6: Tension

"content type"=/PRIVATE_transcription-[ /server24^omega_q22|sma*/file]

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_34

! -["Arc_3ngel"] sent_07.06.2183.0100

!-["redseraph "] received_07.06.2183.0632

["Arc_3ngel"]keypath=

Seraph,

This will be the last report on Azure. I've been watching her for months now and I do not detect any slight of honesty, except that she hides her suffering behind a careful façade of formality. She had a relapse into her seeming addiction to her research after the Mother incident. I didn't see her for days. I found her collapsed in the brig, in a breakdown. I don't like tears on my armor, Seraph. My recommendation is to terminate any further investigation; it is my understanding that Azure expresses sincere commitment to the mission. She is adjusting slowly, but I am optimistic. She eats with us now; I managed to convince her. She has a fondness for expensive tea; she drank all mine. She seems to be bonding with Gypsy and is now regularly practicing biotic exercises with Handsome. Send me a status update asap. I can't stand being dishonest anymore.

Alternately, I am going to have to ask you to approve my funding request for new shocks for the Mako. You have to stop trying to drive that damn thing up mountains - it's a delicate machine and it's not built for that. Please let someone sane drive the next time we go on materials recon. I hate cleaning Krogan vomit out of new armor. Spirits.

-3ngel

=/end.

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_35

[!-["redseraph "]replied_07.06.2183.0640_keypath=

Arc,

If you say it's done, than it's done. I came to the same conclusion about a week ago, but I wanted you to hear it from you. I have been wrong about people before. Your judgment is precious to me. Thank you again, for everything.

She and I did the whole "embrace eternity thing" the night before. It was…well, I feel molested. If she had ulterior motives then she would have tried something right then, as it left me incapacitated for quite a few minutes. But rather, she held my hand and we ended up going over the experience for the better half of the night. I guess she's never shared minds before either. I recommend that if given the chance that you avoid it; it feels like someone quite literally cuts open your head and pours the contents out, and frankly, I have things in there that I would rather keep private. It reminds me of acid. Long story. My dreams became extremely intense every night after thereafter. I can't sleep again.

As disorienting as the experience was, I feel a sort of bond with her now. She is so sad. Now when I see her, we barely need words to communicate. She said I was a very unusual human. I guess that's probably true. But with your recommendation, now I know that I'm not just suffering from some sort of metaphysical asari Stockholm syndrome. Can't be too careful.

Per your request – granted. Should arrive via courier in a week or so. You may nag, but I know deep down under that armor you're going to miss fiddling with that thing every day after I wreck it. You sure you're not quarian? And no, you can't drive. Haha. Nice try. Also check your locker, I put a new heat sink upgrade in there. It will make those plates of yours dance.

-S.

=/end.

!-["Arc_3ngel"] received_7.29.2183.0839

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_46

! -["Arc_3ngel"] replied/7.29.2183.1940_keypath=

Seraph,

What the hell happened with Heart? Why did you do that? You led me all the way out there, I had him in my sights and you took the shot. Again, just what the hell? You know how much nailing that bastard meant to me. And why won't you talk to me – you can't hide in your office forever.

-3ngel

=/end.

!-["redseraph "] received_7.29.2183.0432

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_47

!-["redseraph "] replied/8.06.2183.0640_keypath=

Arc,

My hands are already stained with blood. I didn't want any on yours. You have to go back to the Citadel eventually. Forgive me for not wanting your reputation destroyed. I know enough about turian culture to not want that on your record.

-S.

=/end.

!-["Arc_3ngel"]received_8.06.2183.0835

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_48

!-["Arc_3ngel"]replied/8.06.2183.0836_keypath=

You have no right to make that judgment. You're not my father. You're a hypocrite.

=/end.

[!—["redseraph "]received_8.06.2183.0840_no_reply

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_49

!-["Arc_3ngel"]replied/8.06.2183.2100_keypath=

Come out of there, we need to talk.

=/end.

[!—["redseraph "]received_8.06.2183.2113_no_reply

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_50

!-["Arc_3ngel"]replied/8.06.2183.2115_keypath=

I'm sorry. Please let me in. I know you're in there.

=/end.

[!—["redseraph "]received_8.06.2183.2116_no_reply

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_51

!-["Arc_3ngel"]replied/8.06.2183.2200_keypath=

Please forgive me. I shouldn't have said that. You're still my CO and it was your call. I'm leaving, but please, stop avoiding me. I'm apprehensive about this Virmire thing tomorrow. Goodnight.

=/end.

[!—["redseraph "]received_8.06.2183.2201_no_reply

* * *

!DOCTYPE_Exmail_52

!-["Arc_3ngel"]replied/8.16.2183.1900_keypath=

I'm worried about you. I haven't seen you in weeks. I heard about Handsome. Spirit, I don't even know what to say. I wish I could have been there. I could have done something. But after what I said, I can't blame you not bringing including me in shore party. Look, you can't internalize this. It's going to kill you, if not at first but by a thousand cuts. A few more days locked away in that room and the crew is going to get openly nervous. I'm coming up in a few minutes. I have something for you. Yes, it's a bribe. Please open your door.

=/end.

[!—["redseraph "]received_8.06.2183.1901_no_reply

* * *

_Beeeeeeeeeeep._

"Shepard. It's me. Let me in."

"Go away."

"No."

Silence. She kept her eyes firmly away from the door.

"Come on." He called through it. She tried to ignore how his chord-like voice struck her at just the right frequency to calm her, no matter what he was saying.

"I swear to God I will throw you in the brig for insubordination."

"Ok. I guess I'll just waste this perfectly good levo-chocolate on myself then. Hope Chakwas knows how to deal with Turianfood poisoning. I'll warn you, it's ugly."

Her swollen face betrayed an involuntary smirk. _Damn you._

The cabin portal slid open. The Turian was leaned into the door, his slender body curved in, with one hand on the frame and a massive brick of chocolate in the other. He met his friend's eyes solemnly as she peered through the threshold; in all their long hours together, he had never seen her look so terrible. She stood there, glaring at him through a dark look, appearing as if she had been living in her Alliance tracksuit. Her shower wet hair was frigid and ragged, spurned in a careless chignon; yesterday's smudged mascara blaspheming the shape of her eyelids. She appeared hollow. Her once stormy irises were as flat as slate, the lights in her eyes stolen, the luster of her skin gone. He could see she had been crying.

They looked at each other for the first time in days. It only took a moment for the pretense of resentment on her face to crack. She took a sudden step forward, her face tensing, but stopped herself cold, wracked with guilt. She looked quickly away from him, the impressive pillar of carved edges, down at the floor, and nodded her head sharply to bid him passage.

He entered and was immediately hit with the strong scent of soldered plastic. Her desk was absolutely destroyed; all of its previous contents were tossed on the floor in an enormous mountain beside it. In their place was what looked like four separate ship models, all half started and abandoned, their tiny innards strewn asunder.

"I see I've been replaced." He joked darkly as she walked straight to the bed and lay face down, hiding herself again.

"What do you want, Garrus? I'm a little stressed right now."

"I know."

He took a breath, and began to cross the room, his long legs moving slowly as if through landmines. His voice became soft.

"Look, about that exmail. I didn't mean it. My mouth…it's not exactly in tune with my brain sometimes, especially when I'm angry. My father…we don't get along. I get irrational. I just…"

He had never been in this part of the room before. It was darker here, her lights turned down to a strained dim. She was cast upon the bed, as still as death, face down with her arms tucked around her, her hair staining the silvery pillow cases with cold water. His eyes thieved down her body; stripped of her armor, both physical and emotional, he witnessed for the first time that she was actually much smaller than she appeared. Her cutting voice and eyes, he understood, augmented her powers of intimidation considerably. She looked frail, and it pained him.

"It's ok. I should have let you take the shot…I just…Kaidan…God…" Her voice was cracked, barely more than a hoarse whisper. It's emptiness struck him through the gut. Her remorse was palpable, and its intensity seared his chest. His lenses met the floor. He had seen indescribable anomalies in the farthest reaches of space, the soil of countless planets lined his boots, but not once, never, had he lost someone. He stood looking at his ruined friend as she lay drifting powerlessly to the black hole of depression, wracked with the special breed of guilt only felt by the fortunate as they gaze upon the afflicted. The bitter ignorance that comes from not being able to truly understand another's pain.

Caught between feeling too afraid to move and having too much pity to stand, he made a choice. He approached her, a moth to flame. He sat down, his weight sinking her foam mattress. He turned the chocolate over in his long fingers.

"You're too thin. When is the last time you ate?" He asked quietly, examining the chocolate's reflective foil as he slit it open with a black claw, revealing its espresso colored richness.

"I had whiskey."

"A good choice. But how about something more solid?"

Her voice was muffled by the pillow. "Can't remember."

"Then it's been too long. Here, it may not be very nutritional, but at least it's something."

She was quiet for a long time. She could feel his eyes on her as the harmonics of his beautiful purring voice (she was tempted to order him to read his status reports out loud once, just to hear him talk) dropped low and serious.

"Come on Shepard, I know you like this stuff."

"How can I eat while Kaidan rots?"

Her words struck him hard. He closed his eyes, his mandible tensing anxiously as his head sank in thought.

"You told the crew he died a hero. You don't believe your own words?"

"He did die a hero. But he died because of me."

Garrus raised his head again, his deep eyes turning back to her as his heart reached out where his arms could not.

"No. He's dead because of Saren. Don't you dare internalize this. We're soldiers. Death happens."

After a long moment, her head turned to its side, and she looked weakly up to him through the scarlet web of her haphazard hair. She met his eyes again, and they looked into each other in silence. His irises were like candles in the dark; catching and magnifying the stray light the same way they did when she had found him in the mess, what seemed like years ago. Set within the dark shell of his pitch black scleras, they seemed to caress her; a tenderness that was strongly at odds with the razored edges of his strange face, with all its elegant topography. Whatever he was doing with them, it warmed her. Her heart ached; she had missed him. Her sweetest friend.

"Aren't we supposed to be arguing? Why are you so kind to me?"

"I'm not. You just have low standards."

She laughed, an actual, real laugh this time. It pleased him tremendously; finally, his awkward, corny excuse for wit (he had heard) had found an audience. He was somehow not surprised that it was someone from outside of his species. He decided that what he had heard his whole life was true; he was simply not a good Turian.

He watched her slowly roll herself onto her back to stretch her lithe limbs, but to his surprise she did not get up. She laid back casually on her pillows, her body tilted towards him, staring out into the wilderness of her mind as he sat beside her, only inches away. She, who for months had been so formal, so respectfully distant even as their friendship blossomed for all to see, eliciting deep animosity between some of the crew despite her most profound efforts, didn't seem to care. It intrigued him, yet her vulnerability was an unknown. He had never seen her guard down. They were so close that her hip was practically at his back. Its heat teased. He had been close to her in battle, but this was different. Intimate.

"Did I ever tell you what happened on Akuze?" she asked quietly, her eyes moving over the long edge of his frill, wondering loosely if it became more pronounced with age.

"No. But eat this first."

She watched him move his fingers, only three on each hand; yet strong looking, snapping the thick bar easily. He passed her an enormous piece. It hovered in the air, untaken.

"No, I feel sick."

"You're sick because you're starving. Come on."

"No."

She looked at him wearily. He looked back at her, those electric lenses unshaken. Carefully, delicately, he pressed it to her lips. It's seductive, exotic scent filled her senses; she felt her stomach growl painfully.

"Take a bite. Trust me."

"I don't want to."

"You're lying. You want it. Now open your mouth."

She could fight him no longer. Her eyes closed, and she felt him softly push it in, the tip of his talon grazing her lips accidentally as they opened in acceptance. It was creamy; it slid smoothly over her tongue, exotic and dark. Her face relaxed as she fell powerless to its seduction. It had been a long time since she had had it. He could swear he heard her moan, just a little, at its taste. She reached for the rest, eyes still shut in deepening satisfaction. He handed it to her, staring intensely, and he watched her lips take in more of it; utterly hypnotized.

"God that's good."

"I knew you'd like it."

"What was I talking about?" she asked dreamily, as she neared its finish.

"I can't remember." he lied, not moving his eyes. He felt his blood heating to a boil as his heart rushed its pace.

"...There's something I wanted to say," she said softly, and he watched her swallow, the muscles in her small neck tensing just under the skin. He prayed for her to keep her eyes shut. He was fortunate.

"…Kaidan and I argued. The day I met you, in the Citadel. I was terrible to him. I never got to apologize. I think...I think its a lesson. And a punishment."

"Yeah I think so," he said without really hearing her, his voice phlanging deeply, completely against his will.

"I'll be ok. Maybe. I guess I don't have a choice. I have to be. I just, I've been stressed. There's no excuse. And I'm sorry, too. You're too kind to me. Next time, next time you can shoot whoever you like. You can make your own decisions."

She was licking the tips of her many slender fingers. He saw her tongue, pink and glistening; his breath stopped short, his body threatening inferno. "Please don't worry about it. Just keep enjoying that."

"It's delicious. And I'm so tired, everything tastes good."

"Hunger is the best spice." he mentioned mindlessly, watching intently as she slipped her hand through her hair, freeing it as she slid last piece of chocolate past her sensuous lips, which were so, so different from those of women of his own kind.

"True. I feel sleep coming on, but I wonder if I'll get any tonight. I keep waking up every hour on the hour. My body feels wrecked. I don't even know how I'm going to stand tomorrow."

The drum of his pulse was pounding too loudly for him to hear the terrified protests of his brain. For the second time with her, his words moved before his filter could catch them. "I have an idea."

"Anything. I'm desperate."

"Roll back over. Let me try something."

Sleepily, she obliged. He moved in, daring to slide further onto the bed, his reason blinded with adrenaline. "Take off your jacket. I need to see your skin to do this right."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, as she slid off the garment without a shred of inhibition, tossing it to the floor. He drifted near her, and watched as she bared her alien flesh, seeing it for the first time; a velvety smooth plane interrupted by a shear black bra. He couldn't even blink. After a moment, he found his voice as her question floated back over to him in a haze.

"Relaxing you. Stay quiet. I've never done this with a human before."

"What are you – _oh."_

Six fingers pressed their firm tips beneath the jutting blades of her shoulders and she was done. He pushed, leaning into her, and pressed her into the pillows. At first the pleasure was so indulgent, so profoundly narcotic that she lost his name for a moment. The aching, the waves of release; she moaned, a feeling so intense she could remember none before it – the sound of her own crying voice snapped her back to reality, and suddenly, she was embarrassed. He was massaging her. His hands moved in impossible ways, releasing her pain, tied up in knots which he stroked and sought beneath his fingers that sharply rolled and worked, selflessly inflicting her with pleasure. Her eyes closed, lips parted and breathing as he kneaded the muscles of her spine, plucking and pinching with warm, expert phalanges.

"Where the hell did you learn-"

"No questions. Let me work."

"Wait, are you _calibrating_ me? Jesus, I can't just-

He pressed harder, soothing her soreness with his full strength.

"-_oh my god. Oh my god, keep doing that."_

He gave to her, and she surrendered. The weight, the terrible weight; the deep cut wounds from a thousand battles - salved by the balm of his touch. Her body arced beneath him, he could see her delicate spine, so exposed, the flexing ranges of her musculature, the small bones kissing the nape of her neck. Somehow he was on top of her, his legs around her hips, and he watched her writhe beneath him, forgetting herself with every push of his hands. He was suffocating; each rattling intake a purr caught in his chest, burning, as he stroked her, his palms making love to her anatomy. It was so beautiful, so forbidden that his body screamed, his very soul on fire, consumed, blinded, obsessed, unable to comprehend a reality in which his mouth was not nearing her, his sharp chin tucking onto the space beneath her neck and shoulder, so tight from shouldering her assault rifle that it felt like a rock; he pressed hard, her cheek met his - her head tossed back, lips open.

Her shoulder gave, her skin in all its foreign silk pressed against his jaw as he pushed into it. She cried out again, the sound entrancing, so close to his ear, enflaming his lust for her. He pushed into her again, driving his full weight on her, his hips meeting her body, revealing his arousal, and she cried again, harder - the sound ringing but not in fear, not in surprise. His hands slid around the steep curve of her waist, steadying himself as he drew upon her scent and it intoxicated him into throbbing hysteria. He couldn't take it any longer, he simply couldn't - he had to tell her his mind's deepest secret, if he could talk - did it even matter anymore? He had to give to her what he had been holding, hiding, starving for months – he pulled away, reached under her navel, flipped her on her back and –

His eyes met hers; through fiery slits she gave him a look that could melt steel. She was breathing heavy through her parted lips, her chest gleaming with clear sweat. He breathed back, curved over her dangerously, his weight upon on his shaking arm, thrust into the pillow besides her head, kissed by her hair. They didn't know what they were doing, they didn't care; the universe fell forgotten. She begged him, a whisper; as his body with its flesh blistering hot snaked over her like a demon in a dream, hips magnetized to alignment, carnally compatible, her body opening.

"_Please don't stop."_

He couldn't think, he couldn't reason. He heard only the seduction of her breath and the fantasy of his name upon it as he thought of ravaging her, penetrating her - that image censoring all others - destroying his judgement; luring him to her lips, his mind a prisoner - as he had been from the moment he first took her with his eyes. Her hand slipped into his frill, she pulled him in, his body flushed blue, their faces drawing near, millimeters closing-

"HEY Commander, you still up? Anderson wants you in the comm room. Now. Its urgent so get the eff up."

Rage. Unadulterated rage.

Garrus flew back as if possessed, startled so much that he reached for a rifle that wasn't there. Shepard's hand moved to her face, shaking in pure hatred.

"GODDAMNIT I'LL BE THERE IN TEN!"

"HEY DON'T SHOOT THE MESSENGER! YOU THINK ITS EASY FLYING THIS THING AROUND AND DELIVERING ALL THE BAD NEWS!? NOW GET YOUR ASS DOWN THERE IT'S URGENT!"

They heard him click off. Shepard was already up and pacing, her head in her hands. She scooped her track jacket off the floor and thrust it violently over her head, grabbing her codex and storming towards the door, Garrus on her heels. The spirit of that encounter lingered in that room long after it had ended. She wouldn't sleep in that bed again, even to the day her ship lay in ruins.


	8. The Incubus

Disclaimer: This chapter contains subject matter that some may find objectionable. Reader discretion is advised.

* * *

Chapter 7: The Incubus

"What in Keelah is she doing?"

Tali and Liara stared at their commander, seated alone across the mess, her assault rifle deconstructed in a dozen pieces on the table. Her slate eyes completely glazed over, she had been oiling the same part of her reciever for ten minutes straight. Liara's luminous gaze, which always saw much more than she revealed, turned carefully to Garrus, who was seated unnecessarily far from the lot of them, clear across the room; hunched over, weighed on his elbows, staring intensely at a codex that had long since powered down.

"I haven't a clue." She calmly lied.

"Indoctrinated." snickered Joker in a laugh, deliberately threatening to spill coffee onto Tali from his open thermos as he ambled past on his return to the cockpit.

"That isn't funny, Joker." Lamented Tali, the words turning in her thick accent as she shouted back to him. "Why does he think that's funny?" she demanded, tilting to the asari, who averted her gaze so the quarian wouldn't see where she was looking. "I learned a while back to not take anything he says seriously. I advise you to do the same." She said serenely, stirring her silvery tea with an artistic hand.

"She's been so distant lately. She never comes down to see me anymore." Said Tali with a tinge of sadness as Liara raised the ceramic cup to her lips. She drank, filtering her knowledge with the tea leaves, and replied. "Well, let's look at this objectively. Currently, we are racing towards the Mu Relay on a stolen Alliance vessel as fast as the Goddess will take us, on the trail of a genocidal maniac, who happens to be in control of an ancient sentient ship responsible for the absolute destruction of all life in the past cycle of this galaxy. And it's only the second day of the week. I would say she has a lot on her mind."

"True. I guess even I still can't believe I'm technically a pirate now. I suppose it doesn't matter. Everyone hates quarians anyway."

Liara turned her large eyes down. There was much she didn't believe either, apparently. She mused on this privately for a moment, considering the consequences of letting the young quarian in on what she knew. But she was quiet. Such information was not something to be thrown around on a whim. Finally, there was a stir, and Shepard rose, her weapon by some sleight of hand complete again and tucked beneath her arm. She strode towards the elevator without a word. The two women watched, their heads moving as if watching tennis, as the turian swiftly followed after her.

"Odd." Remarked Tali, verging on suspicion.

Liara didn't divulge a word. Deep in the blue labyrinth of her mind lay certain pieces of Shepard's memories, dreams, fears, desires. She had seen the ocean of her commander's aspirations. The jagged edges of ancient fears strewn amongst the broken abstracts of dreams. She had seen the dandelion wisps of her childhood memories; vengeful in their painful flashes, mostly forgotten, blended seamlessly with a burning, repressed shadow. A blistering shackled desire, seething in the darkest corner of the human's id, a starved figure chained in a neglected chaos that looked a lot like –

* * *

"Garrus."

"Shepard."

The elevator door closed. They stood in opposite corners, the six feet that buffered them not enough to keep the air from electrifying. Her gaze fixed forward so hard it hurt; she felt her heart race maniacally as she saw his sharp head turn so slightly. His eye was on her like a laser, the same color as his coldly glowing visor, staring predatorialy, daring her to speak. She breathed, her mouth so tight her tooth bled her lip.

The door slid open. Wrex took one look at them - neither budging a millimeter in their battle of attrition - and shook his head, letting the doors close back shut, deciding now was as good a time as any to use the damn stairs.

"You are not allowed to follow. Go away."

"I'd like to see you try and stop me."

The door opened. She walked out, staring ahead intently, making a beeline for her door. The hall stretched before her, seeming to contort to Hitchcock lengths. She heard him, the monster of her craving, following in her footsteps; his long legs matching her pace step for careful step. Her heart raced but she absolutely refused to quicken her stride. She would not show weakness.

Not again.

She approached her door, her hand slid across it. He was right behind her, his breath on her neck, slipping through his sharpened teeth. Her foot crossed the door, his fingers took her wrist and she snapped.

She reared on him like an animal, twisting in a fury; ramming her knee to his solar plexus – he dodged, she missed; he snatched it in a lightning fast flash and swung his leg, tripping her. He swooped down to tackle her – she twisted, her foot flying up to kick him as she screamed in rage; as limber as she was, he was yet faster. Again, he grabbed her foot out of the air, tracking it as if it moved at a standstill (oh the uses of that visor) and pulled, dragging her screaming, flailing, swearing towards her bed, its sheets untouched for two weeks.

"NO! NO!"

Calmly, expertly, he pulled her up by her ankle with improbable strength; he lifted her clear over her head and threw her on the bed in a shocked tangle. Moving faster than the eye could follow, he snatched her arms and folded them in a cross behind her back, pining them with three fingers, while he ripped a sheet clean off the bed with the other and tore a long strip away with the help of his hard mouth, lashing it around her pinned forearms in an invincible knot.

"Scream again and I gag you. We can do this whole thing with head nods for all I care." he hissed in an icy whisper as he lashed her ankles to her wrists.

"Garrus Vakarian I swear on all that is holy _I will fucking murder you."_

"If you meant that you would have already done it."

He finished, tying an extra knot for good measure and gently rolled the little egg on her side on the mattress, so that she could face him. She was absolutely terrifying to look at, her eyes blazing with an abiding rage that he absolutely ignored. The furious woman watched as he calmly meandered about the room, turning off various lights. He grabbed her desk chair and dragged it over, its edges screeching on the metal floor, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Garrus positioned it right in front of the bed, where she lay writhing in futility on her side, unable even to lift herself.

"Remember that little joke you made about C-Sec's interrogation method's being ineffectual? That was cute."

Suddenly, she was completely blinded with pain, her body screaming in agony as every droplet of water in her entire being sizzled to a blister and a boil. She clenched her teeth, somehow managing not to openly scream but a terrible howl tore through her throat. Suddenly the awful fire stopped, she was drenched in sweat, panting, blinded, screeching –

"_What the fuck did you just burn me with!" _

"PMID: Portable Microwave Interrogation Device. Still think we're old fashioned?" he asked sweetly, turning the little light, indistinguishable from a flare, over in his fingers. Only his glowing visor was visible against his sharp black outline of his silhouette, seated easily in her chair. He continued, taking pleasure in her bondage.

"This chair is comfortable. A lot more than our current predicament, wouldn't you say?"

"_What do you want, Garrus!"_

"I ask the questions." purred the turian, laughing softly from his throne, blinding her with agony with his little device once again.

"STOP! STOP PLEASE!"

"I think not."

"NO I'LL TALK! I'LL TALK!"

He clicked his tongue against the hard carapace of his mouth in disapproval. "Disappointing. I've had obese volus child-touchers last longer than you. The Great Commander Shepard. Hobbled by a little flame."

"Please, just get to it!" she begged, her eyes tearing up, saliva rolling from her mouth as her dignity was torn from her.

"Fine. Question one. What is your interest in turians?"

She looked at him, shocked.

"NONE! You're a council race! I've worked with-"

"Bullshit." He pressed the button, she screamed, shaking as the waves ripped apart the molecules in her skin one by one. He lifted his finger, tears rolled down her face; she was weeping in agony.

"Again. What is your interest in turians?"

She panted, crying, "I DON'T KNOW!"

"You're lying, Jane. Can I call you Jane? I think I will. Just tell me. You can tell Garrus. I'm your friend, remember? I don't want to have to hurt you agai-"

"I USED TO CUT OUT PICTURES OF YOU! OF YOUR KIND! I KEPT THEM IN A BOOK!"

He nodded, pleased. "Good. And why did you do that, Jane?"

She sobbed, her chest convulsing, vomit rising in her throat. "Please, please don't make me – "

He raised his finger, she saw and screamed in terror, her heart breaking, shattering into a million shards "I HAD A- A- PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT!"

"A what?" he hissed in a sensuous whisper, not moving an inch; he already knew.

"A CRUSH! A CRUSH! GOD WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO-"

"Who's asking the questions here, Jane?"

"I'M SORRY I'M SORRY JUST TURN IT OFF! PLEASE, GOD-"

"Tell me about this "crush". I need names. Details."

She was weeping into her bed, her face destroyed, mucous pouring out of every orifice of her face. "Jane." he demanded, testing her silence, and she squeezed her eyes shut as he lips began to move,

"It was no one. Just turians. _God, I don't know why_ -" she saw his finger hover over the button - "I'VE NEVER KNOWN PLEASE DON'T-"

"You _like_ aliens, don't you?" he asked in an inky whisper. Her blood ran cold.

"Yes I just said-"

"It's not just that, is it Jane? _Jane._ Look at me." Her eyes opened, peering at his black outline through her shuddering face. She was blinded by her sweat and tears, his every detail swallowed by the thickening darkness.

"I asked you if you liked aliens."

"Please, Garrus, please it's not like that-"

"Do you know what a fetish is, Jane?"

"NO! NO! I SWEAR IT'S NOT-" her words became warbled, the syllables lost in her screams, and he sat idly by, indifferent to her suffering.

"It's because you hate your own kind, isn't it Jane? It's ok, your secret is safe with me. With your friend, Garrus. We're still friends, aren't we? After what you did?"

"I don't – I don't! Please –"

"Oh, but you do. I think there's a reason you left me on the ship during Virmire. Safely tucked out of harm's way. I wonder what Kaidan would say to your playing favorites."

"NO! NO THAT'S NOT WHAT I-"

"Don't you lie to me. And just look at how you treat me; I've been so sweet to you, so kind. Loyal. Honest. Caring. I even tried to give you a massage and you turned it into a dirty, depraved, disgusting thing. Tell me Jane, what did you plan on doing with me that night?"

"No, Garrus, please…"

She shuddered in violent, uncontrollable seizures, her muscles dying, as he languidly leaned forward, sliding his visor off to make his expression invisible, putting his whispering face against her ear as the words slipped out like fire through his mouth.

"Did you want to fuck me?"

"_Jesus, Please stop! Let me go!"_

"Officer Shepard, I asked you a direct question."

"_Did."_

He rolled his tongue in her ear, as his teeth pierced her flesh like needles; blood sank onto the sheets while he raised the device in front of her eyes, his black claw hovering.

"No, NO!"

"_You."_

"_Please! PLEASE DON'T"_

"_Want."_

It descended, touching the dial.

"_GARRUS, I SWEAR! I SWEAR I DIDN'T MEAN TO-"_

"_To."_

"_I PROMISE! I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL NEVER, EVER-"_

"_Fuck."_

"_NO! GOD NO! NO! NO!"_

"_Me?"_

"_JESUS I CAN'T! PLEASE! I CAN'T!-" _His finger pressed; her dissonant mind cracked open like an eggshell as she screamed and screamed the words in her head that no one heard.

"YES! GOD YES! I'VE WANTED YOU SINCE THE MOMENT I FIRST SAW YOU – I DREAM ABOUT YOU! – PLEASE GOD JUST LET ME GO, I CAN'T TAKE IT! I HAVE A JOB TO DO! I CAN'T TAKE IT- I CAN'T TAKE-!"

* * *

"Shepard! Shepard!"

She was being shaken awake; she heard crying, her face was wet - her eyes slammed open, wreathed in fiery tears. She was collapsed over the back table in the War Room, her body blazing with pain. Adrenaline stampeding through her like a freight train, she looked up and saw two fearful cobalt irises hovering inches away, warm hands gripping her shoulders. In horror, she screamed and struck him in the face; he broke away from her watching helplessly as she tore from the room, trying in vain to outrun a demon that was lodged firmly in her mind.

The doors closed behind her, leaving him shocked and bruised in an empty room.

Speechless.

* * *

Author's Note:

To those of you angry, puzzled, or both: I am not trying to be condescending, but I have had some very angry reactions to this chapter in particular. I am going to ask you to go out on a limb and trust me, as I attempt to lead you through this. It was only a nightmare. Nightmares are by their very nature, terrifying twists on reality.

We all know Garrus would never do anything like this. But why would she Consider what we know about this Shepard and her past, and then think about human-turian cultural attitudes in a post-first contact war Earth, when she was raised. Then consider the effects of survivor's guilt. Kaidan. Akuze. Then read between the lines of what is really going on here. Look at the power play. What does this look like to you? Think about it.

Remember, this Shepard's a _survivor. _There are a lot of themes which will be handled in this fic as delicately as I can write them, but they have to at least be alluded to in these early chapters so that they do not seem tacked on later.


	9. Love in Ruins

Chapter 8: Love in Ruins

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines.

She ran.

Her mind did not see the world for what it was. Her sight was blinded by ravenous ghosts. Rebar upon a storm wrecked sky. The splinters of rotting boards. Paper in the rain. Looking into the lonely night, a wish upon a nameless star. The bedtime stories told to break her will, the dreams that saved it. Voltage; doctors. The release of nothingness. The void.

She exploded through her door, tearing into the bathroom. Falling to her knees, her gut's meager contents climbed up to the floor. Eyes, blue. She wretched, a terrible pain; a fury that gave to trembling. The curve of his posture as he took his aim, holding the rifle close, so careful, with such affection. She coughed and sputtered; burning tears. Every time he looked her way, the halt of time; the push of her heart to the floor. Her body to the bed. Blistering warmth, a beautiful burden, then weightless. Gravity defied. The brutal pleasure of trusted skin, of desire tasted but not swallowed.

She wept into the toilet that her mouth had missed; her body rejecting – trying to abort the thing she knew to be true. Although her gut lay steaming on the floor it did not cure her of her sickness, for she was not truly ill. In her body hid a fever with a cure she could not have, an ache from a splinter she could not pull. The word. The fated thing she dared not speak lest it notice her and grow stronger. The emotion always felt before understood.

Contagion; the demons clawing from the prison of her flesh in a game never played before. An infection. A disease. She could not give them to another, she could never show their terrible faces, hidden just beneath her own. She would take them to the grave with her, to hell; to die in the dark from where they came.

She saw her face in the calm water, and knew. She would have to break his heart to save it.

* * *

He had seen her true face, and now he could not look away.

The turian watched her standing there; her body eclipsed by the lost majesty of Illos, the empire of rust. She was turned from away from him, as always now. What had happened to them? He felt that he lost every time he approached her, yet he could not keep away. Her pain, so piercing, drew him closer each time. His hands hurt with the memory of her touch. He had made her forget, if only for an instant, that they had shared his dream and had forgotten the worlds that lay between them, will all their unknown territories. She had drawn him into her, and there he suffered. He could not eat, he could not sleep. His thoughts entranced, enslaved, his flesh addicted. Knowing but not stopping, he approached her even though he sensed, deep down, how it would end.

She did not acknowledge him as he stepped onto the stage besides her, gazing at the hologram that lit her face with its amber light. "Shepard. How long before the drop?"

"A few."

He nodded, not knowing what to say besides the pounding question. He looked around, wiped his plates, and shifted his feet. The CIC was mostly bare, quiet as everyone prepared downstairs, yet he felt as if every word he spoke was deafening.

"Look, I'm not good at small talk," he started, looking nervously off into the distance, the words slipping off his smooth voice into scarcely more than a whisper, "but I wanted to know if there is something between us."

There. He said it. Relief, for a fraction of a second. But she did not move. Her eyes lay fixed on the false image of the planet.

Silence. Terrible, terrible silence. His knees threatening weakness, he stole a glance at her. Nothing. Her face was as still as the quiet.

"I-I can't…" he saw her eyes fall, betraying her, but he pushed forward, he had to – to know, to finally see, to feed the question that was devouring him alive. Each word was a knife that lacerated his tongue, each breath a swallow of smoldering coals. But he pressed on; brave.

"…stop…thinking about…you know."

He forced his mandible into motion.

"That night."

The words finally spoken hung there, off the edge of that cliff, his thrashing heart threatening to push him off of it, his palms so wet they wouldn't save him. "Shepard..." he whispered searching her eyes for an absolution that was not there, "…what was that?"

She never looked at him. She couldn't. She felt the fractures on her heart begin to shake in violent tremors. But he couldn't know that. What he had seen, that angel of fire, was gone; in its place a standing corpse. In desperation, he reached out to her and grasped her small hand; it was as lifeless as a cold stone.

"Shepard, please. Please look at me."

Her hand slipped away like sand through his fingers. He felt the last ray of light die from a vault he watched close before his very eyes.

"Nothing."

His mouth parted, his heart folding into a supernova within his chest.

"It was nothing. A mistake."

It burst. A thousand suns, his memories, with all their planets and satellites, destroyed. Annihilated. His hand fell. She moved her finger and pressed it to the board, shutting off the illusion of the world. His retinas burned in the absence of its light. Never looking at him, she turned her back and descended the stairs, leaving him on the platform, alone.

"Saren's down there. Everyone volunteered to go. I drew straws; looks like you're getting your man after all."

"Oh…good."

"It's what you wanted. Bring your rifle."

She turned to walk away.

"Shepard."

His heart flatlined before it detonated.

"Why can't you just be honest with me. Just this once."

Her stride halted, paralyzed. She heard the turmoil in his voice, its silken stream mutilated and dissonant. Her eyes closed tightly shut, too spineless to look at what she had done.

"I brought you to Saren. I brought you to what you wanted."

He laughed, a strained, dark sound. For the first time ever, in the year she had known him, she heard something black in those once pleasant tones.

"Saren. So you think that's it. You think that will fix me. Ha."

Her lips began to shake, enlivened by the anger swelling in his voice, but she did not, she would not face him. She couldn't.

"He's medigel; a temporary fix to a permanent wound."

She could hear his heart breaking, sinking into a hole of inescapable pain, that dragged her into it, to hell.

"_Look at me, damn you!"_ he demanded, his plates contorting in tortured rage. Her voice was so cold it sliced the air from his lungs.

"What you're feeling right now, it's nothing. You're confused. If you're pissed off, good. You should be. If you hate me, even better. Hate me. Go ahead. I'm doing you a favor. Take that wrath turn it into a bullet. At least that's something you can use."

He didn't see her eyes shut. The tears that bled from them.

_"I idolized you. I destroyed my career for you – I abandoned everything! My life, my family. For what? For you to tease me, to torture me, and then not even have the humility to look me in the face when you crush my heart in your hand? Where is your honor!"_

"Your career," she hissed acidly, "Was destroyed before we ever met."

The knife twisted like fire. His mouth parted as his eyes cut into her, as tears welled within them.

"When I first saw you, I thought you were an angel. But now I finally see, after all this time."

His words tore her flesh to the bone.

"You're a monster."

Her lips, once beautiful, curled into a demonic snarl and she swooped her shoulders back and blazed into his face, contorted with rage.

"You think you're so wise. _You're not._ You're impatient, impulsive, and arrogant! If I let you have your way, you'd be _just like Saren!"_

He stepped to her and put his face right in hers, leaning down the six inches he had on her; the winter in his eyes unblinking, their bodies rounding each other in contention – neither budging, neither flinching - fire and ice, storm and steel in fury as they destroyed each other, match for match, word for word like gods at war.

"Listen to your sanctimony – if I'm Saren then you're Benezia; blinded by your own good intentions – too proud to admit to denial! Do you ever even hear yourself!"

"_Lines exist for a reason, and you crossed them!"_

"-_Me? I_ crossed the line? Unbelievable – so _now_ you drag out rules and regulations! –"

"_Get your fucking finger out of my face!"_

"_I hate to destroy your virginal little fantasy but I wasn't alone when I crossed your precious lines! Remember? Which lines now – the one between me and your shower – how about the one between our private terminals? Not enough? All those wasted hours of productivity – interrupting me constantly while I was trying to work -!"_

"SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!"

"_NO! You can't even stand to hear it because you know it's true and yet you just keep lying!"_

"YOU LOST CONTROL!" she screamed and pushed him hard in the chest. Sent back, he growled, teeth gnashing and pushed her back – arcing over her, their faces aflame – like animals – her clenched fists shaking,

"- SO DID YOU! You like to sit there and pretend that everything is so grey – so neutral! IT'S NOT! You know the truth! I saw you, _the real you_, for a second and you're terrified! PICK A SIDE!-"

"_-I JUST DID!-"_

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH YOU MEAN TO ME! YOU CAME INTO MY LIFE AND EVERYTHING CHANGED! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE MY MENTOR – BUT YOU ACT LIKE _I'M_ YOUR LEADER! BEGGING FOR _MY_ HELP! YOU LET ME PICK YOU UP JUST TO BITE ME IN THE HAND! A LAMB TO SLAUGHTER!"

She thrashed. Her elbow collided with his gut. He fell down the stairs, crumbling into ruin. He looked up at her, the wounds in his eyes tearing a hole in her mass through which nothing escaped. Shaking, her chest heaving as she sucked in air – somehow no amount being enough to stop the suffocation, but his voice, strangled from the fall, was a bitter sword:

_"You think you're the only one running. You're not. You think you're problems are the only ones in the universe that matter? They're not. You're a coward. A barefaced coward."_

Her eyes blackened with disintegrated mascara, as he tore her soul from her body and saw it for what it really was. She breathed, chest heaving, snarling, the final blow:

"You better enjoy this mission, _turian,_ because when we're done, pack your shit. We're through."

"What."

They stared at each other across the dark space between them.

"_You fucking heard me. It's over."_

"Sh…Shepard."

They snapped their heads to the side in unison; standing, in abject shock, was the crew. Tali was shaking in streaming from Liara's eyes. There was something indecipherable in Wrex's expression, and for once, Williams looked as though she might cry. A half dozen support staff cowered behind them.

"_What, Tali?"_

"…we're here."

"JOKER." she barked,

"…"

"_Touch-down in fifteen."_

"…aye ma'am…"

She descended the stage, stepping over Garrus as he lay broken on the floor, barreling past them and smashing a locker to ruin with a single blow as she stormed from the room. It was Kaidan's.

As the door slid shut behind her, he picked himself off the floor, still bitter with her dust, and he heard the whispers of the audience in his ears in an unwanted cacophony.

"_-the fuck was that."_

"_What happened? Did you see what happened?"_

_"I always thought he was so nice."_

_He snapped."_

_"No she did."_

"_I can't believe it."_

"_I guess everyone has a dark side."_

He pushed past them, their eyes staring and lips moving, as he breathed, somehow, without a heart.

* * *

When she reached her quarters, she ripped off her clothes and smashed them onto her untouched bed, still creased in the memory from of their forms. She panted, staring down, before her arms began to move, of their own volition.. She tore the sheets to pieces with her bare hands until blood flowed from her cuticles. She threw her armor on top of the mutilation, and put the pieces on, one by one, her heart beating a low drum as her soft flesh disappeared behind impenetrable scales. Slipping the last glove on, her visor flicking down, her guns in place, she snatched the husks of cotton, the broken pieces of a path not taken, crossed the room, and threw them into the incinerator. Her finger a missile, she pushed the button. She watched the memories smolder and die, curling into black snakes, the ashes floating, the inferno reflected across the dark glass of her helm.

She watched the flames, the cremation of her soul.

It burned.

It burned just like the orphanage.

* * *

_The two youths finally stopped running, heaving from exhaustion. They looked back, down upon the city from a high overpass. The flames licked the sky, lighting it and igniting it in a terrible blaze, the scent of concrete burning, carnage scalding the very air._

"_It's beautiful, isn't it?" the boy asked the girl._

"_It is. Red is my favorite color, you know."_

"_How fitting. I think I'll call you Seraph."_

"_Seraph." She tested the word on her lips, its meaning seducing her tongue. "I like it. And what do I call you, dark-eyes?"_

_He brushed his long hair black hair out of his brow and smiled at her, the flames glancing across his face._

"_Kai. Kai Leng. But you can call me Ghost."_

* * *

Author's Note:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;  
And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;  
But thy eternal summer shall not fade  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,  
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade  
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.  
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

-William Shakespeare


	10. Mad World

Chapter 9: Mad World

He should have known.

He could still see her standing there, in the place they first met, amongst the calmly falling ashes. Her skin was bathed in turian blood, beset on all sides by the limbs of monsters; silent, lips parted and panting, looking out to them from the broken stones while the cherry trees burned.

He should have known it was an omen.

He did not look back at the Normandy as he walked away from it, his leaden rucksack cutting into his shoulder. He bore no expression. The ship gleamed massive and briery behind him, its shadow blanketing his small figure as he meandered from its shade, tiny in its wake. He paced slowly down the cracked dock, all around him destroyed and grounded ships, faceless personnel running to and fro, blurs in the frenzy.

The Citadel lay in pieces. He floated past them, past the hurried chaos, not hearing any of it. The sirens, the sounds of crying children, reporters, cops, medics; every sound muffled by the dampness of his mind. He merely walked; a ghost in the madness.

Invisible. That familiar touch.

Her face was on every screen, her voice in every speaker. The blinding lights of cameras blazed her hair, a swarm of microphones hovering near her bruised and still blood lined lips as she parsed the questions, eyes nervous but stern, Anderson right behind her - magnified a thousand times on a hundred walls, in every elevator, in every hall. People of all races, ragged, starved and scared, their hands at their mouths or arms crossed tightly, looked up at her image in en masse, mesmerized in trauma. Unable to look away, they simply watched as the news reels played over and over; the creature hitting the tower, the burning buildings, smoldering rubble, the victims covered in dust. Again. Again. And still yet again.

He was the only one that couldn't look. The only one against the grain, that strayed from the flock.

The doors opened to the Presidium, bathed in darkness, its lights still put out. Broken glass, wire, and stones in ruin. Keepers and familiar plated faces moved around him like shadows, no one seeing anyone, immersed in their tasks. He could only keep walking, just walking, to the only place he knew, the only place left. He passed the bread lines, past the posters of lost children, past the weeping parted with their hands outstretched, asking God questions with no answers.

And there it was. The P36. Its tracks, somehow, undamaged. Perhaps by vengeance, perhaps by karma; the tracks he knew by heart, the metal bracket of worn out memories, that lead exactly to a place he knew.

His soles touched the circle, the only person in line. It arrived, perfectly on time; the recurring clockwork of his old life spread out before him, its doors opening, vacant and unchanged.

He entered, he walked. He slipped his hand through the cold metal noose hanging from the bars above, standing, though he stood in the cabin alone. A vacuous hum and a mechanical whir. It started, so smooth he exerted no effort to balance. The same commute twice each day, for 6 years, that with every morning simply slipped by unmemorable, becoming morphine by the evening.

He turned his head, hollow yet heavy, looking through the window. The world passed him by in indifference, so fast he caught only a frame of it with each blink. A mother and her children. Empty store fronts. The shattered clouds, exposed in their plastic lie. A lone turian, old, with paint worn thin.

Drifting through his neighborhood, colorless, empty; its silver leaves falling like dust in premature autumn. His building, featureless, grey. His finger on the reader, the doors that squeaked when opening, the guard that never looked up at him. The elevator, a metal box with flickering light. His hall, that always smelled like stew. His door, the number and the mail slot.

Inside the small space, his father sitting there, long crest framing the wings of his chair. They looked at each other. The elder Vakarian stood and approached his son, an image of his past. He put three letters in his hand. A termination, an acceptance, and a hospital bill.

"She's dying. Don't come home."

* * *

He lay naked in his sunless sheets, carefully made, the double wide bed as empty as winter. He could hear his neighbors having sex above him. Half-past midnight, right on time. They never bothered to turn off the news. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, hidden below the sounds of a life that wasn't his.

She was gone. It had only been a dream.

* * *

Author's Note:

Gary Jules - Mad World


	11. A Pillar of Salt

Chapter 10: A Pillar of Salt

"You loved him."

Her lids were blackened by the shadow of her red hood, closed with pain still coarse.

"And yet you crushed his heart in your fist, and watched the blood run dry. _Merciless._ I am ashamed you are not Krogan."

"It was necessary." Said she in a pained whisper. Shepard, the nightmare who could stare down a reaper. Shepard, who could slay monsters from the dark. She was afraid of nothing and no one, and yet this is what caught her breath in her chest with terror; this is what her words into futility. The brutal unfairness her own soul struck her, and she seethed in its fiery tide.

"There is something that we say. You should listen."

She turned her eye to him, as her ear opened. Krogan advice was never something to be missed.

He set his gaze far away, and spoke after a measured silence.

"Sex is a beast with two backs. Love is a beast with one."

Shepard looked at him, her brow crossed, the subject matter striking her as profoundly out of place for him. He continued, his luminous crimson orbs turning back to scan the horizon. "Old krogan proverb."

"I didn't know krogans had proverbs." She mused in understated intrigue.

"We used to. Long ago. Before your time." he thought for a moment and paused, "And mine. We had great theaters. Epics, poems. Spread from land to land, by mouth and voice. Few remain that remember them."

She looked at the old krogan, her eyes questioning his, surveying his scars with a quiet tenderness.

"What stories did they tell?" She asked softly. He turned his head, sighing. Of course she would ask. No one ever asked things of that nature anymore. No one, but her.

The Human.

Side by side, the krogan and the woman looked out to edges of the Citadel's arms from their high vantage, seeing beyond its still charred spires. They had been docked for seven days, and this was their final evening. Seeing the past in the swiftly slipping distance, beyond the veil of set his eye upon forgotten years; their shiftless forms. How far away it was, his people's greatness, their lost valor. The collected stories, by the billion, of an entire race wiped as clean as snow. Countless scores of memories, the sands of an ocean of existence, would simply perish with them, the final grain slipping away as the last Krogan fell. The lifeblood of his ancestors drew pale in their river in the stars; a pool so shallow its nadir touched the sky. He saw the faces of the young, the fatherless, those without honor or faith. Hands with no purpose, feet with no homes, battles with no point – the last survivors of his kin suffocating like fish in a disappearing stream.

For all their might, for all the blood they had spilled which slandered the soil of a thousand worlds, none of them – his very own people - had ever dared, had ever dreamed, to give what she gave. To trust as she trusted. _The bitter irony, _said his heart among its absinthian brothers, _how far we mighty krogan have fallen._ How far indeed, such that the crux of their future lay in the soft palm of a tiny human female.

And yet, and yet…there was something there, something familiar, something he had seen before – long ago, in a place now forgotten; despoiled, barren and dry. Beyond that laughably fragile skin, inside the marrow hollows of those weak little bones, behind the pale face which never smiled – a flame in the dark. A voice, with words that mattered, that had their roots in what many sought, far more pretended, but few possessed. Eyes that saw, and hands that did. In one insignificant body, in one frail life with its abbreviated years that in a scant few decades would sicken and die, lay what his entire civilization in all its might could not muster even as death mocked them with its laughter.

Conviction.

If he had shed tears once in his entire life, he would have shed them then, as she lay the last legacy of clan Urdnot at his feet. He could still see her face; serious and alien – those strange eyes shimmering in the Stygian waters of his ancient mind, and she bowed herself deeply before him and gave with hands outstretched, asking nothing in return. The words her lips wielded like the blades of his fathers, that pierced and prayed and slaked his wrath; the words that kept their promises, that spoke with truth. He had lived over a thousand years, and in that time he could not count on one hand those who he had met with such mercy, with such trust. In her eyes he saw the smoldering ruins of a distant life that only whispered, if one listened, of the Hephaestian forge which had hardened and sharpened her through a suffering that he could only sense as he had watched her stare into the nothingness, seeing things no one else could see. In all those measured months, he had watched her, and witnessed her truth. She was a warrior; a living force from a different plane, touched by the wrathful gods for a purpose that was yet to be shown. And he knew, somewhere in his destiny, lay her hand.

He could only wish, resentfully upon a distant star, to one day have a son like her.

And thus, the old one, who had seen so much, broke his silence to impart his wisdom, for whatever it was worth. He felt, somewhere within the hollow halls of the hard mountain of his insides, that he owed her that. That he owed her more than to watch her waste away – castrated by a pretentious, worthless child who had never seen as they, those who had truly suffered, had seen.

So, he spoke.

"The only ones worth telling." he said, his guttural tones weaving. He turned to her and their eyes met, the last light burning deep rivers of flame down the fissures in his battle-torn face.

"Love. Sex. And war."

Her eyes bled sorrow, their silver lenses cast down at her arms that crossed over the stone ledge like the roots of an ancient tree, as the two warriors looked out to the tarnished city. People of every color and creed were flowing through the docks, immigrants and pilgrims in exodus and arrival. Thousands of bodies filtering forward and back from the ships and landed and flew, each a fish a thriving sea, with a story, with a life.

"But those days are gone. The lessons, however, are not."

"This may be the most we've ever spoken, Wrex."

"That's the thing about keeping your mouth shut. People forget that you're listening."

The artificial wind, back on from a place unseen, swept her hair. She brushed it out of her eyes, looking to him in silent suffering. He pressed on.

"I know why you did it. You must not look back. It is done."

She scoffed and looked away.

"I'm a soldier, Wrex. I don't have time for…_for that_."

"To slay an enemy is one thing. To slay a lover is another. You will feel that guilt until your death. It will weaken you if you let it."

"We never had-"

"Semantics. It doesn't matter. Only true care breeds rage that hot."

She kept her eyes forward as they laced among the thousands of faces. "You seem to speak from experience."

"…I loved a woman. Once."

Her eyebrow raised as her eye turned to him. He cast his gaze over the ruined city.

"…Immutable. Fire-tongued. No one's delicate flower. The kind of female that terrifies males, and addicts them. The kind of female that makes one struggle to be her equal each day, in vain."

She searched him, seeking the labyrinth of his features with all their mysteries. She could hear something deep in his voice, a deep secret that swam in the dark waters of a bottomless sea.

"The kind of woman you never forget."

She stared at him, her face softened by the resolve in his words, with such sadness, that she had never expected to hear.

"For 397 years since the day we first met, I have traveled, and in every place I've landed, I hoped, in my heart's black eye, to see her. Just one more time."

She looked at him in the fading light, searching in the impossible. "Do you think you will ever find her again?"

He turned his red glare on her, and spoke - bearing down that ageless gleam directly into her soul.

"I do not know. But we have another saying: 'Each person has two shadows: death, and fate.' Meaning, if it is meant to be, it will happen. The stars will always bring our destiny back to us, even if we miss the kill the first time. Our choice in things," he laughed bitterly as he looked back to the false horizon, "is an illusion."

"So I don't have a choice?"

"No. And another thing."

He stared into her. Her stomach quaked.

"He will never understand you until he has lost what you have, and as much. Until that day comes, you will be as different as blood and fire; what lies between you as frail as paper in rain."

The tears in her heart dared not reach her eyes, for they were warriors, and she understood his truth, in its exquisite bareness; plain for her heart to see. And it surged, then burst.

Their fists locked, and she bumped his shoulder, a large boulder to a small one. He assented to her with his massive wyvern head, and they looked to each other; the fading light a blaze in her clear eyes as she beheld him, the greatest battlemaster, with a symphony of feeling. He nodded at her, and she bowed her head deeply, her incarnadine mane sweeping over her face.

She would miss him. Shepard watched the massive krogan shuffle slowly away on his stone like feet, armor clinking, a relic from a primeval time.

"Wrex." she called suddenly, and he turned, his red eye piercing her as he cast it over his draconian shoulder.

"I never had a brother. But if I did, I wish he were you."

He halted, and considered. To her surprise, he laughed – a deep, bestial snort.

"A Krogan brother? You should have told me sooner. You can have mine."

She watched him walk off, her lips turned in a baneful smile as he drifted away from her on his long journey home, to his forsaken land. She wondered as she watched him disappear behind a closing door, if she would ever fight beside him again.

He, was why she fought for Krogans.

Her omnitool buzzed, and she looked down. She wrestled the deafening cries of her aching heart. It was time.

* * *

The engines blasted, the tail lights arced. The rare web of night fell on the Citadel as the engineers changed shifts, conserving the energy of the nascent grid, barely operational after the clash and the fury which had nearly destroyed it all. Thousands walked, thronging the makeshift docks, enlivening the uncommon evening with a cacophony of travelers and sounds: the scents of foreign meats hastily cooked in the street, the glow of a hundred halogen lanterns strewn above to light the way, the laborers which still worked, moving broken stones even as the great convergence threatened to trample them. Transports came and transports went; each shining vessel a ladle which drank the moving waves of life. Faces in blue and pink, frills, lips, horns and eyes, a living reef of phylogeny in a sea of movement.

Wrapped in cloaks of fabric worn rich or ragged, they came and they went, searching for the lost, abandoning the failed, reaching with their many hands for absolution on a gamble, on a chance. Among them, standing still amidst the movement was a turian checking his rail pass for the tenth time though he had committed it to memory, his fringe bent down beneath the naked stars. Dressed for travel in deep blue, he carried nothing, needing nothing. It was a one way road paved with a recommendation and a rumor that he never got to see; everything paid for, everything done. His eyes looked up and cut through the dark as the crowd swept around him, and he watched as his ship descend, its great wings opening like a hand. A hand to take him, far away, to yet another path cut across the unknown stars.

After years of silence, his father's ban had been lifted by an unseen finger. He had been accepted; his past lay behind him, his last chance, his final shot touching down from the heavens onto the battered concrete amidst the versicolor tides of wanderers.

Spectre. He would be, his silent prayers heard and answered from a hidden angel, a Spectre.

He took a breath, tilting his head up to the resonating light of his destiny, which opened its arms for him down the far corridor, welcoming him away from the shadows of his broken life.

He exhaled. He moved, his tired feet starting down yet another path, to yet another foreign sunrise; prepared to board another ship and never look back.

A dozen vessels had just touched down before his, their living contents flowing towards him; but he pushed on, seemingly the only one going forward while the rest surged back. He tucked his head and pushed onward, plates furrowing with the effort of running against the grain. A thousand neon lights zipped past him as his vision began to blur – his stomach sang in chills, adrenaline pumped; he was so close. He sped up, he neared it, it's great ramp spread open, just for him. His toes kissed its metal grate, the decrescendo of the cabin depressurizing – a hot breeze swept his frill and clothes.

His heart was pounding, he swallowed hard.

This was it.

He pushed the air out of his lungs and tried to move.

He tried again.

And again.

But he was rooted to the spot. Those deep eyes looked back to the ship, he shook himself, pushing the well of feeling as it reared its monstrous head deep back to the pit of his core – forcing it back with breath. Like lead, he took a single step. And another, but yet again, he halted as his limbs became heavy. He couldn't shake the feeling; a shiver down his spine. Impossible, improbable; he hid his own instincts from the zealous logic of his brain but its argument folded like a house of cards. Kicking himself inside, he turned back his head, he had to.

Her eyes pierced his, and the breath was stolen from his lungs.

Unmoving in the center of the pulsing river of the crowd stood a woman dressed in red. The woman. The only woman. The beacon of his rapture, the sun amidst mere candles. He could hear the engine revving, the voices calling, but he breathed, he could only breathe - his heart quaking, falling to glass - as they held each other across the towering space between them, the only two beings in the universe. The look between their eyes the only thing that was real.

He saw her lips move upon her tear streamed face.

_Go._

The beryl glaciers of his lenses cracked, and suffered a single bitter drop that lay burning on his cheek. He bit his tongue, his soul enflamed, and turned away, against his gravity - not daring to open his eyes until he slid into his seat, looked out the portal, and watched the woman he once knew disappear forever behind a streaking veil of light.

Her last memory. The massive truth, filling every field of vision, fading with the light amidst the indifferent black of space. It was the last thing she saw, as she drifted in that cold vacuum, her silent wish come true; its callous irony floating past her with the shattered pieces of her ship, now nameless in the endless void.

Weightless in the stars.

* * *

Author's Note:

I,

I have wondered about you  
Where will you be, when this is through?  
If all, if all goes as planned  
Will you redeem, my life again?

Fire the fields the weed is sown  
Water down your empty soul  
Wake the sea of silent hope  
Water down your empty soul

Fight your foes you're on your own  
Holy war is on the phone  
Asking to please stay on hold  
The bleeding loss of blood runs cold

And I need you to recover  
Because I can't make it on my own

On my own.

-M4 Part II, (Faunts), End Credit Score to _"Mass Effect"_


	12. Knowing

Chapter 11: Knowing

There are a lot of things in my life I'll never forget. That day, will be one of them.

Our hull was breached. Cracked open like an egg, our barriers gone. We had explosions going on all around us; hazard lights flaring, the counsel shrieking at me to work faster, harder – but we were going down. Every pilot's worst nightmare and I never, ever thought it would happen to me. Me, dammit. You forget everything under pressure like that, your mind stops working – everything comes down to your hands. Your muscle memory. I always told those assholes at the Academy that they shouldn't laugh at what people can't do, because it only makes the things they can do stronger. I can't run a marathon, but I can fly anything. Anything. A carpet square if I have to - though the eye of a needle. I may have spent most of my life in a chair, but that chair sat at the business end of a 200 ton faster-than-light turian-human cosmonautical lovechild custom engineered to fuck your shit up. There was fire, but I didn't feel it. My eardrum was perforated, but I don't remember how. She had never failed me, she never judged me - my baby, the best thing I ever flew. I wasn't leaving her without a fight.

I wouldn't. I didn't.

Her pieces, metal bits – like flesh and bone, where flying around me, slicing my face. Ten minutes ago, it's almost funny, we were just soaring by, completely normal. Four days with nothing, not a damn peep. I should have known; I should have seen it, how odd that was for where we were. The Terminus system. Jesus Christ.

We were flying stealth, we saw the cruiser – slavers we thought. No reaction time. I should have reacted. Why didn't I see it? A single crack, and our weapons were toast. _Bam!_ – and we were flying neutered. I turned around; everyone was dead. Just lying face down on her shiny floor. But I just keep screaming updates into the comm. Just screaming, like it mattered.

I could smell the plastic burning beneath my fingers, but they just kept moving. Pressing. Dialing. Forcing coordinates. Sliding through flight path algorithms. Reinstating shield boosters that never started. The oxygen getting thin. Somehow, I put my atmospheric regulator on. I don't even remember where I put it, or how. I just needed her, my girl, to hold together, just a little longer.

Just a little longer.

And then, she just appeared. From heaven, or hell – maybe she played for both sides. A valkyrie, just like in the textbooks; the flames around her. A part of her. Her hand on my shoulder, warm, nails digging through those gloves. Her face in mine, screaming words at me I still can't hear. But I wouldn't abandon my girl – I could still save her. Goddammit, she never left us. She was always there for us, for me – I flew with her right into the mouth of a monster and she never quit me. I prayed for her, for us, more times than I could count. I wouldn't leave her. I couldn't.

But the commander – the commander. A black helmet and a wasp's body, those nails digging, everything lost behind that reflective sheen. I wasn't even sure if I even liked her – sure we had our moments, but she wasn't exactly what I would call relaxed. Her style, well, it veered left where mine veered right. But there we were, fools for fools. Me trying to save the Normandy, and the commander trying to save me. Two lost causes. The irony.

Screaming. Thrashing. Two strong hands with razor sharp nails, my body lifting, gravity gone. The inferno in our faces. My love torn to pieces in my upside down world. Her silver flesh ripped from her bones, peeled back like orange skin, ripped into the cold I-don't-give-a-shit of space. I could hear her screaming in the soundlessness. A billion angry pieces, just sucked away. But the commander. I never knew she could lift me; I mean, I'm not exactly a big guy, but I still couldn't believe it when it was happening, and even now, I guess. I can still see her. I can still hear her. I was over her shoulder, kicking and hollering like a kid. But she carried me.

She carried me.

Me.

It was hot. An understatement. I think my arm was broken. No big effort there. The commander threw me, still talking – what was she saying? Her voice was getting desperate; into the escape pod. She actually threw me. Like a damn feather. I hit the floor, broken ribs. Two sets of bony chick hands on me – Ashley, Liara; crying, their faces ruined from tears. The air pulled harder as our hull, our whole world, ripped in half – torn apart, utterly, inescapably destroyed, the roar as silent as death in the vacuum. We looked. The commander was hanging on by her fingertips, her body shuddering like fabric. We screamed for her, we reached for her, but the door was closing – it closed – it closed, dear God it just closed. Liara was screaming, trying to override it. All I could do was look.

I saw my face in her helmet, for one second, before she was just gone.

Gone.

Just another piece of rubble.

I stared, I screamed. I screamed and screamed. The engine started – we were rocketing away, torn from her, forced apart like two like ends of a magnet. She and the glittering pieces of my ship blasted towards the planet while we went the other, and before I could blink, those pieces, the only thing that proved it had all really happened, were tiny. Just dust against a sphere. Invisible.

You know, I believe in humor. I really do. But sometimes, I wonder, does God? Does God think these things are funny? Sometimes, at a show, a comic will take a joke somewhere pretty dark just to prove that he can. Just to remind the audience who really has the mic, who's really running the show. You can't have them getting all entitled, thinking they can just chime in and heckle – letting them be delusional enough to actually think have a choice in the story, in the joke. No.

No.

Sometimes the comic has to prove himself, has to remind everyone where it all comes from, all the jokes. All the laughter. Because when you look at it, and I mean really look at it - comedy, its tragic. It's sick. What greater a lesson about life; that people laugh at things they really shouldn't, and that God finds humor in striking down the strong so the weak should live. That the healthy are cut down so the sick can breathe. That good people die, while assholes live, and even get rich doing it.

Well I wasn't laughing.

Do you hear me up there you son of a bitch? I wasn't laughing.

I'm not.

Not this time.

Thanks, really.

For nothing.

* * *

I waited for him in his lobby.

It was a large square room, nice, if not a touch sparse. Like him, I mused. I looked down at my feet, waiting. It was the middle of the night, but on the Citadel, that meant next to nothing. The sun lamp, now fully restored, was turned down a hair to signify the passage of time. It stung my eyes. There was nothing like a few nights on the Citadel to make me long for my own moonlight, in its eternal silver beauty. Every time the door opened, I would look up. So foolish. One would think that years of academia would teach one discipline. I suppose that I am just good at faking it. Like mother always said, pageantry is everything.

I stared at the floor. Some sort of turian stone, with rivers of dark metal slicing through it like veins. Like blood. I had a hood over my eyes, in crisp white. Thessian wool. Expensive, something I just picked up and bought on the way over in a gift shop. I was tired. I didn't care. I just wanted to hide. My eyes, well. I was surprised I could even see through all the swelling.

No, don't think about it. Just stop.

Stop.

The door opened again. There he was, walking in that long stride, eyes fixed forward. I hadn't seen him in months, but there he was, still exquisite. Moving so fast. The sniper, the engineer. That dazzling one track mind, like a razor, that cut through everything it saw – as long as it was in his path.

I wasn't.

"Garrus." said I.

He turned, that odd feline visage flexing amidst its plates in shocked curiosity. He stared at me. He must not have recognized me through the hood. Through the flushed swelling. "Liara?"

He was considering me, his questioning mind turning behind that imperceptible armor. He cocked his head, appearing now avian, and shifted the heavy rucksack slung over his shoulder. He had just gotten back. I knew because my little hobby had been getting somewhat out of control lately. It's interesting to note how decades of sifting through dry research articles and arcane texts can sharpen one's mind for something a little more…challenging. Information is a very elusive thing – everything we do, every step we take is tracked. Recorded. If people knew the things they left behind in the virtual world, they would swear off technology. I would say that they would never leave their homes, but well. I can find them there too. I've spend my whole life behind glass, watching the world with an empirical eye.

So what is one more lens, one more screen?

The universe at my fingers, the key – just asking the right questions. I made them all my subjects, their lives, my thesis. I even cared for them. It's difficult not to, when you watch the lives of strangers so spread out so bluntly before you; like animals in a zoo. Your eyes are on them but they cannot see. They cannot see you enough to lie to you. And so they go about their business in blissful oblivion; cooking, extranet surfing, relaxing, arguing.

And after a while, you begin to care. For some of them at least.

Others you just want to kill.

This talent, this glut for knowledge that was storming in my mind – it became a hunger that never left, I could feel it spiraling out of control, a monster growing beneath my skin. With everything I learned, my every step became heavier. But I couldn't stop chasing it. Truth; my drug. So beautifully addictive.

Not now.

"Nice to see you. But…"

His eyes traveled over my face, the wheels of his mind turning. I kept my eyes hidden, daring to look only through the white veil of my hood.

"Ah well. Who cares, I'm just glad to have some company. How are you?"

"I know it's late. I am sorry. But there is something we need to discuss."

He looked at me. I saw him moving his mouth parts slightly, that odd little mandible jumping – juxtaposed with the intensity of his glowing eyes.

"Is everything alright?"

He had seen right through me. I kept my face perfectly still. Goddess, I hated lying. But what I hated more, was how easy it was becoming.

"Yes. But it's…private. Can I come upstairs with you?"

"Oh, er, sure."

For the first time since the hour that I had sat there, I saw his security guard raise an eye plate, leering at us as we crossed the space to the elevator. Can we do anything without being fetishized?

"Another elevator," he joked trying to catch my eye, that pleasant voice of his vibrating warmly as he dialed in his floor. "Ever miss those long awkward chats? You know, they're just not the same off the Normandy."

Goddess.

"Yes…those certainly were the times…you haven't been home yet, I take it?"

"No, I just landed. Two days shore leave. Thought I would kick back, drink myself into oblivion and blow all of my stipend at the range before I return to class."

"Oh. Yes. How is that going for you?"

"Wonderful." He was gushing. My heart. Goddess. My heart was weeping for him. He didn't know. He hadn't heard.

"- I have this tradecraft instructor – _Sartorius._ Complete spook. Half his frill missing – melted off by an acid round. What a mess. But he can disappear in a crowd like a ghost, and for a seven foot turian with half his head missing, well, that's something. Oh, we're here."

Ding.

I kept my mouth shut, my throat burning. The hood was hiding my face, the rain smote upon it. He just kept talking, the poor fool. So pleased to see me. So pleased to see his old friend. I seldom felt my age, but I felt it then.

I felt as ancient as that black veined stone.

He opened his door, and welcomed me. He threw his bag on the floor, the lights revving up.

"No." I asked suddenly. He turned; I hid my face, ducking it low.

"The dark. Please."

I kept my head bowed, but I could feel his eyes on me as we stood as still as stone. He knew. He knew something was wrong. My lips moved. He could see them shuddering.

"My eyes…they are…sensitive. Please. I just need the dark…"

"Liara…"

He came to me, so tall. He tilted his head down, trying to see into my hood, but I moved my chin away from his hand. I darted, crossing the room.

"Where is your tea?" I demanded, desperate to put it off just a moment longer.

I had already seen his heart break once.

"Over there."

He indicated to a silver bar that separated the two halves of his apartment. Impossibly neat, metallic and masculine. The space was small, but it had a tall ceiling. The whole right side was a window. I saw him there, in a jagged black silhouette against the majesty of the Citadel, sliding his finger over the glass to shade out the light, just for me, casting us in grey twilight. This was his sitting area, the massive window beside two gleaming black chairs arranged around a coffee table welded from refuse ship wings, upon it a deconstructed rifle shining new, some of its pieces still in plastic. Odd, he seldom left things unfinished. I scanned further. Two bottles of Rosenkov frictionless lubricant set upon a stack of bill printouts – blue lined envelopes from a hospital. My interest piqued. He turned, I averted my eyes and crossed the room.

I went to his bar, another modern steel concoction, nestled between his sitting room and his kitchen. He nodded to a row of over a dozen steel tins, perfectly cylindrical, featureless and glassy save for a thin line round their center. I picked one up and twisted. Nothing happened. I tried the other way – a little give, weird clicking, and then nothing. I tried again – nothing, again – my anger flushed – losing control I flashed blue with a biotic surge before slamming it on the table and erupting into tears, my cover blown.

The worst part was that he had been expecting it. He walked calmly over to me as I stood there shaking in anguish. Wordlessly, he picked up the cylinder and demonstrated, holding it to his ear and twisting it in miniscule increments, each rotation producing a slightly higher click. His eyes smiled as he showed me, twisting it this way and that, before it made a happy beep and slid open. He exposed the tea.

"It's a puzzle. Harmonics."

"That's brilliant."

"I like to stay sharp. Our language is all about nuance. Keeping a trained ear is vital."

"I don't imagine you have locks like that on your liquor?"

"Hah."

He knelt and grabbed a bottle of wine.

"Stronger." said I, my voice darker than I would have believed a year ago.

His face shifted to surprise, and I was beginning to see his worry. He dug around and extracted something that glimmered an ominous, toxic green. He grabbed two glasses and poured. I sat down, my head in my hands. I heard the clink of the glass against the metal as he set it down in front of me, amidst the constituents of the rifle. He sat across from me, holding his glass, his eyes burning through my hood. My heart was pounding. My lips, were frozen.

I couldn't.

We sat like this for twenty minutes. I couldn't. I couldn't.

I couldn't tell him.

I heard him set down his glass. He knew. He knew me. Goddess, I didn't want to be that little girl crying on his chest again, but he knew. He just knew. I felt my hood being slid off, sliding soft against my crest. I felt the fingers on my hands, so gentle. He pried them from my face, and saw. My eyes inked black. My skin destroyed. My hands snaked into his, five fingers in three, as he stood over me. We just looked at each other. I put my head against his abdomen and closed my eyes.

"Turn on the news."

_-ne Shepard, 29, confirmed killed in action last week during an undisclosed objective. Commander Shepard lead the edge against the attempted Geth invasion of the Citadel this year, and assisted in the take down of the terrorist Saren Arterius. Alliance Personnel refused to comment on this tragedy, as details are still-_

He fell.

On his knees, beside me. He stared at the screen, and didn't say a word. We watched the pictures move as if on mute. Time, had stopped. I grabbed my glass, and passed it to him. He pushed it away, not tearing his eyes from their prison. His aura became unreadable. I downed the sickening liquid in one pass. He never moved. Frozen.

He just watched.

The reporters talked. Cameras in Anderson's furious face, him storming away from their frenzy. Footage of Jeff being loaded onto a gurney. The white stones of military graves. A montage of Earth, its oceans and skies. A towering city I didn't recognize. A photograph of the Normandy, its turian and human engineers fitting its last panel during its highly publicized christening, a lifetime ago.

A snapshot of a soldier in a group shot, the only female, 21 years old. Smiling somewhat shyly, with a burst of crimson hair.

I saw his fist shaking as it clenched. His nails cut into his palm. A drop of cobalt blood fell upon the floor.

"…how."

I breathed. I talked to his frill, to the screen before it.

"...we were looking for Geth."

"Oh yes, the Geth. _Of the 'Geth Invasion'?"_ he snapped bitterly. I closed my eyes and inhaled, my stomach twisting in ice, my heart in acid.

"Yes. That is their story."

He grabbed my glass and smashed it across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered. I said nothing, as he lept to his feet and began to pace. I kept my head down. I couldn't even look. I pressed on, pointing my words to the blood drop on the floor, watching it tremble as he paced in a long straight line.

"Ships were disappearing. They sent us to look into it. The Terminus system. And then…we were fired upon."

His eyes looked up, and so did mine.

Goddess. The knife and the fire.

His mouth moved. I had never been scared of him, until that moment.

I won't that forget that look until I die.

"_Who."_

My lips began to tremble, my body shaking. He stalked across the room, unblinking, something insidious in the way he moved his hips, his shoulders. Something off. Something in those eyes that quietly terrified me, something rising up, just behind his face.

Something different from his own.

"…we don't know."

He stood over me, his head bent down. He took off his visor, and set it on the table. He tilted his head, still not moving that terrible gaze and spoke.

"Then show me."

I looked up at him, shocked.

"What?"

"Show me. Show me with your gift."

"I…"

Pain sparked across that murderous glare, dimming the hellfire of his eyes. The harmonics of his voice cleaved, splitting, in fever, as he softly whispered,

"…please."

I looked up at him, my eyes sore with tears yet they just kept falling, each drop a punishment. I shook my head, unsure, exhaling, my fingers gripping my seat.

"I…I can't control some of it…"

"Then give me everything."

I whipped my head back to him, his eyes burning, my lips parted.

An awful burden took me. My mass enflamed, and pinned me to the center of the Universe.

He didn't know what he was asking for.

Dear Goddess.

The things she had seen.

"Those thoughts were hers. I don't know…I don't know if you should see…"

He took my hand, as my shoulders shook with silent weeping. He made me look at him.

He held me in his eyes. My darkness met his.

Eternity; in the blackness behind the blue.

"My friend, I am warning you."

"I am not afraid."

"I know. And that is why I fear for you."

The silence, and the whisper.

"Do it."

I stood, and neared him; feeling something else take over me. He was burning hot. I put my finger on his chest and moved him back as he became as light as air with my tainted touch.

"Sit down. You won't be able to stand after."

He drifted to the chair, his mind already asleep.

Mine.

We weren't supposed to use that part of ourselves. My first time calling upon it. But I had a lot of firsts that year. I laughed inside. A sound I didn't recognize.

It intoxicated me.

I suppose rumors start for a reason.

He looked up at me, complacent. I looked down, my hand raising. My fingers falling to a blade, I touched them to his brow, to the third eye all creatures have. The other two closed.

"_I pray for you, turian, for you have asked for that which is not yours. But I shall give it."_

He shivered, still half conscious.

"_I baptize you, turian, with knowledge. With Knowing. And its weight will change your step."_

I reached into my inner Universe, and pulled forth The Sight.

"_May the Goddess take mercy on you as you walk the path you have chosen for yourself. Goddess, guide this trespasser with your undying light,"_

My eyes became the Void, and Saw.

" …_for his path now, is in the shade."_

Embrace Eternity.


	13. Black and White

Chapter 12: Black and White

The taxi door opened. A turian slid inside.

"Hey how're you doing?" said the driver listlessly.

"Just fine." said the other, his eyes already out the window. The door closed. The engine started.

He simply was not there.

The driver's hand upon the wheel, the world whirring by; colors and fog. The angles of ledges and architecture skimmed past the glass, casting fleeting shadows over the passenger's plated cheek as they slipped on through them; a snake through towering silver reeds.

"Hey what's in the cryo box? Present for a girl?"

A present.

A pool of red hair, fire on a pillow, burning his arm.

Eyes that cut. Lips open. Breath.

Yes.

A present.

"Roses." he said quietly. "I hear humans like them."

"Oh you got roses! Hey, those are hard to come by. Must be a special occasion, no wonder you got 'em on ice."

Silence. The passing buildings which scraped the hollow sky.

"Yes. Some things die quickly."

The cabbie's eyes looked through the mirror at him, watching the other man stare out the window with no expression. Dressed in grey. He wasn't even wearing paint. The driver rolled his eyes. Kids.

He spoke again, absent.

"Some things just don't have enough time. Before they spoil."

The driver chuckled.

"Ain't that the truth."

They made a hard left.

"The presidium right?"

"No. About four blocks north, please."

"No problem. Hey, you going to that thing today?"

"What thing?"

"The funeral. Haven't you heard? It's been on every station, for weeks. That girl that died, that human."

He didn't say a word. The driver sighed and continued.

"Been off in the stars I take it?"

The passenger rasped a dry laugh.

"Yeah. I guess…you can say I just got back from a long trip."

He looked back out the window, to the buildings so high up above. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of the light on his face.

Warm.

Peach colored skin.

Smooth. Soft. Like silk, even with the white scars that crossed it like deltas on a foreign river. Memories, traced through the glistening sand of her life.

And then it faded.

Cold.

Again.

The lamp disappeared behind a massive tower. His eyes opened, just slits. His vision a blur, unfocused. He didn't care to look at the world for what it was anymore.

He had seen enough.

"...But here I am. Back again."

His eyes like embers out of that window.

"Like I never left."

The driver shrugged, fiddling with his music

"Eh, that's life. Sorry to break it to you, kid."

That's life.

Life.

"So where you going?"

"A grave."

"Oh. Spirits. Sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

"Don't be."

A sudden burst of light blinded his eyes, his pupils constricting, but he did not turn them away.

"I never liked him any way."

"You meeting your girlfriend there?"

"I hope so."

A quick right. Their bodies glided with the momentum, the heavy box pushing into his charcoal thigh as his shoulder touched the window. They were getting closer. All throughout the street he could see people walking, countless bodies in black and occasionally white, for the colors of mourning differed sometimes with culture. Thousands drifting towards a common point, robes and fabric flowing, floating with the wind as if the gravity had turned off. The marching of quieted feet. Like ghosts. All converging, all gathering towards a soundless epicenter of bodies, lights, and cameras. He could see the stadium lights in the sky, even half a city away.

He would not be joining them.

"Lots of people out there. Phew. I guess she was well liked. But then again, how many people save the galaxy's largest space station, become a hero, and then end up dead in the same six months?"

His fingers tensed.

"Only one."

"Exactly. It's a legitimate shame. I'm not really one for their kind – I mean, I was about your age when that whole mess went on, so I've got my prejudices. I still think they're ugly, but I saw her on the news and, damn, she might have been the exception. And I hear she was a hellion too."

"…She was."

The driver clicked his tongue in his mouth, shaking his head in dismay as he cut off another car. "Just my kind of woman. Figures. Didn't happen to know her, did you?"

The passenger ran his shaking finger down the metal box, watching the buildings slide past him with cold indifference, before moving his mouth.

"…No."

He murmured bitterly, the words turning like poison on his tongue.

"Not at all."

It was quiet for just a moment longer, before they stopped.

"We're here."

The driver reached a long hand back and took his card, slid it, and passed it back. The passenger looked at it uselessly, at its pointlessness, before reaching back up to take it. The door opened. His hands found their place around the leaden box and he slipped out of the door.

"Hey!"

He turned, his eyes looking like granite against the backdrop of his somber clothes.

"You sure you're in the right place? I don't know of any cemeteries up here."

The turian smiled and looked back down the empty road.

"There aren't…Don't worry, I know where I'm going. It's just a little bit out of the way."

"Oh…You sure?"

He smiled further.

"Yeah, really. It's ok. And it's kind of new. Well, it will be."

"…Alright. You take care of yourself, ok?"

"I always do."

He turned and left, walking into the great distance before him. His driver watched, still uncertain. At last he shrugged it off and turned the key; gone. The lone turian walked, counting the numbers on the buildings down until he came to the one he had chosen, so carefully, the night before.

He checked it twice; always the perfectionist.

The ashen turian walked through the door, which slid open for him with a pleasant mechanical whir. A zenful reception area, and Chellick, on door patrol. When he recognized him, his face lit up like a sunrise.

"Garrus! Spirits, haven't seen you in ages!"

"Hi Chellick. You're in a good mood. How's your wife?"

"She's great. Just got back with the kids from Paleven. Khali just had her birthday."

"You must be so proud."

"Ah, there's no greater joy. She wants to be a sniper, just like uncle G."

"That's sweet. Just do me a favor and tell her it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Eh that's you, so modest. What are you up to – shit, are those roses?"

"Yes sir. Long stem."

"You and the ladies. Another one bites the dust, eh?"

"Chellick, really. Just meeting up with an old flame."

"Mmm, those are the ones that burn the hottest. Better watch yourself."

His chest seared. He forced a painful laugh.

"Sorry kid, you know I'm an old bastard. Gotta live vicariously – married."

He flashed his ring. It glittered bitterly, like ice. The younger turian stared, perhaps too hard.

"So, anything I can help you with?"

"Actually… yes. Do you have the keys to the roof?"

"Sure, what for?"

"I was going to surprise her. I'm going to give her a gift."

Chellick smiled hugely.

"…You crafty little bitch. I never knew you were a romantic. She'll be in your bed tonight for sure."

His lungs collapsed, as all feeling was pried out through the hole in his chest, long since emptied. He steadied it, and cast his eyes upon the sunny floor, on its little golden flecks, swallowing.

"Maybe… in a dream…got those keys?"

"Sure Garrus, good luck."

They dropped into his hand. He looked at them, and then up at his old friend, who was casually picking lint off of his uniform.

"Thanks…and Chellick."

Their eyes met.

"I hope everything goes well for you. I mean it."

"Ah Vakarian, you're too serious. Going to scare her away like that. Just relax. Hey we'll go for a drink later, tomorrow night. You can tell me all about it."

Garrus smiled.

"Yeah. I'd like that. I'll see you at...the bar."

"You know it."

He tipped his head to him, and turned away, the keys nice and cool in his hand as he hit the call button. Soundless clockwork, and the doors spread out before him. He was still smiling as he crossed the threshold, and selected the 124th floor, the very top. He closed his eyes, and breathed in life while he stood standing, tasting the moment with a clarity he had never felt before. It took off like a rocket, so fast his stomach dropped from the dizzying push - a profoundly chilling, exhilarating feeling.

Like the Mako when it dropped to terra, holding on to the roll bars for dear life.

Like the scent of new armor, still slick with the plasticine perfume of sealant.

Like the clean ceramic clack of a heat sink slamming into its receiver.

The touch of soft red hair, sliding past his tongue. The salt of her sweat. The flames that always followed her.

_My Angel. _

He opened his eyes. He looked slowly up. He unlocked the door. Cold air licked him as he walked calmly from the frame to the desert of concrete between him and his vantage. His mind as clean as the beautiful sky, the perfect lie, he stepped purposefully, as if in slow motion, to the edge of the building, the box falling open.

His arms moving. The truth exposed.

Rose petals fell past his fingers like crimson snow. A headless flower, thorns, and an empty box clattered soundlessly to the stone, left behind in a trail of forgotten carnage.

A Rosenkov Volkov X glinted in the false light, already loaded, as it unfolded in his hands.

He walked, slowly, becoming a black silhouette against the cerulean sky.

Udina's voice magnified a thousand times its true capacity. Speaking empty sounds. Not a word of it audible, not a word of it that mattered.

Good. He was in the open.

He dropped to his elbows, prone; his body like a Y. Breathing, steady. Controlled. Bipod, out.

_My friend. I've missed you._

The optic, carefully coated in a glareless film, automatically routed to his visor.

_I said…things…I never should have said…_

Wind direction 94 percent ambient. Near optimal.

_I know now… I finally see…but then… I never knew…_

A slight southwest breeze. Residuals from the oxygen recirculator.

…_how scared you were…I didn't think you were afraid of anything…that you even could be…_

Predictable sinusoidal pressure fluctuation, crests 3.37 seconds apart.

_How wrong I was…like I always am…_

His eye kissed to the lens.

_I destroy…everything I touch…_

Crosshairs. No parallax.

_You're so beautiful…_

Scanning the crowd. A sea of heads.

_But I ruined us…I tried to take what wasn't mine…You're right, I have no patience…_

Marked. Podium.

_But.. It can't be undone…_

183 degrees from origin.

…_And it's killing me inside…My only…_

Confirmed.

_The only time I wasn't lost…_

Closing eyes. Three seconds to prevent fatigue.

…_was when I was with you._

Open.

_Please…_

Recalibrating.

_My sweetest friend…My angel of fire…_

Target in the cross hairs.

_My…_

Breathe in.

_Please forgive me…_

Breathe out.

_I'll see you soon…Just remember…_

Heart beat.

…_To come down and talk with me, whenever you have the time…_

And empty.

_You know where I'll be…_

Heart beat.

_Right behind you…_

A finger.

_Forever. _

A trigger.

"And now, if you will all be so kind as to lend your eyes and ears to the screens. We would like to air Commander Shepard's last interview, taken just days before our terrible loss. Let us remember her, in her own words…"

His heart stopped. Raw footage. Her eyes right through the camera, through his scope, past the cross hairs.

To his core pierced her eyes.

"_Now Commander, everyone wants to know, what was the hardest part of your involvement in taking down the dangerous terrorist Saren Arterius?"_

Shepard's scarred brow crossed, and she sort of smirked. What a stupid question.

"_You mean aside from the fact that he was operating under judicial immunity?"_

The video cut a single frame; it had been edited. It skipped right to the reporter's next question without skipping a beat.

"_Well, yes…But I mean, emotionally."_

"_Emotionally? You know I'm a soldier, right?"_

There was laughter in the crowd.

"_Er, yes. Could you humor me perhaps?"_

Shepard smiled, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She looked off into the distance, past him; considering. Her eyes focused, and she looked back into the camera.

Right back into him. From behind the veil of death.

There, again.

"_Well…I would have to say the worst part was that he…he thought he was doing the right thing…and to be honest…"_

He couldn't breathe. The rifle shook in his hands.

"_I pitied him."_

"_You pitied him? The murderer?"_

"_Yes…I pitied him…He was so sick that he actually thought he was trying to help people…I think you would have to be heartless to admit that that notion isn't sad. I...I watched him die."_

"_But you realize that he was a merciless killer?"_

"_Of course…but he was also a person…once…You see, you may think I'm delusional, but you should consider something very important, something that Saren himself never saw…a dangerous line of thinking. Something I hate more than anything else."_

"_And what is that, Commander?"_

She sighed, her gaze becoming hardened, as she saw past and present fused into one.

"_The world…the Universe…it's not just black and white. It's a nice thought to think that it is, but it's just not. There are too many factors…Too many consequences…Every single thing we do is a result of choice. Even the things we think don't matter, and the one that sneaks up on all of us most of all, well, it's how we perceive things. That's what shapes us, our choices – the lens that colors our world, so often, is either black or white."_

"_And what color is your world, Commander?"_

She laughed.

"_Well, I would say my world has lots of colors. Sometimes it feels like grey, but then I snap out of it, and look around. And I see blue,"_

His chest burned, his finger sliding off the trigger, a tear shaking in his lid.

"- _and green, and red, and peach, and brown, and a whole kaleidoscope of beautiful things."_

"_Now, Commander, forgive me, but just a few minutes ago you were criticizing me for asking you about your emotions, but now I think you're spouting poetry."_

"_Hey that's different."_

More laughter.

"_No, really – I've got a gunnery chief that's obsessed with poetry. I've got nothing on her."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yeah we read together sometimes. I love her. You see, that's exactly my point. You'd never know by looking at her, she's about the hardest girl I know. Always on my case, but she keeps me sharp. She gives me angles, that well, sometimes I neglect. But I guess…I guess I believe in people. I get a lot of shit for keeping xenos on my ship in particular."_

"_You stole my next question."_

"_Yeah, I know. Everybody asks me why. And frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing it. I don't care if it makes me unpopular or whatever. I love my planet, but we're not the only ones in the Universe. There, I said it. Is there not the word "Alliance" in Alliance? You see, when I was a kid, it was right after the First Contact War. My whole life, I was basically raised to be terrified of turians, in particular."_

"_Tell me more about that."_

His head was in his arms, his tears crashing down in soundless waves, unable to look any longer, her voice vibrating his entire body like his sun, so huge, blinding with its light.

"_Well, it's plain to see, and it goes back to my first point, which I see you keep trying to stray me from - about things never being black and white. So we were at war with the turians for a brief time over what was essentially an accident - The Relay 314 Incident. We almost got destroyed, let's not kid around. Us, barely in space, and them – thousands of years advanced. How could we not be afraid? And, really, how could we not be jealous?"_

"_Jealous?"_

"_Yeah you heard me. Jealous. Just look at what they had – what they have. The most well-organized military in the entire galaxy. A stable economy. Thriving infrastructure – countless colonies; the perfect system. The perfect bureaucracy. It's everything we always wanted, what we've strived for - from every throne, from every seat of power, in our world. Rome lasted less than seven hundred years. The Turian Hierarchy however, god. Millennia. A culture of public service, a strong belief in personal responsibility and honor, and a near religious desire to commit to things not just for the self, but for the greater good. What the hell is there not to like?"_

He could hear cheering begin to roar through the crowd, ten thousand voices bellowing in his tongue. But the sound of his people couldn't stay his tears, which raged in soundless epiphany. He knocked his gun over, and it clattered down beside him, as immobile as his shuddering body, pressed hard against the concrete.

"_Do I hear you putting turians up on a pedestal?"_

"_Hell no, I just killed a psychotic one. Stop twisting my words. Jesus, there's that black and white thinking again. Look. Here's some parting wisdom, because frankly I'm getting tired of this shit and I want to get back to work."_

She breathed in, and steadied herself, looking right back into the camera, to the whole Universe.

"_The easiest thing in life is to hate what you don't understand. And I don't put anyone on a pedestal – we're all fools, but we're all fools together. I should be going."_

* * *

He went home that night, laying in his bed with a small piece of paper in his hand, scrawled in red hand writing, for hours.

He watched his life drift before his eyes in a montage on his ceiling.

And then, he began to pack.

He emptied his bank account to zero. With the credit chits that were the jingling embodiment of his bachelor years coming to a close he spent one on a courier to take his many rifles, the only things he really owned, to somewhere he never thought he would go, with the first light of morning.

Morning. The most beautiful he had ever seen. The only one he could recall ever even watching, the tea warming his plated nose as he watched the endless city come to life from the soft blue twilight of his window.

He didn't sleep that night.

He had never felt more alive.

He looked around his empty apartment, all its life picked up, and shipped away. He looked around at its absolute emptiness, and embraced it. Liara's words filtering back, a memory whispered in his ear.

His choice.

His eyes fell down to his hand, at the paper he never threw away. The tiny slip, still folded in a crisp square. His fingers caressed it, opening it, softly, to its still perfect center. The fragile thing he had worn beside his heart, between his shirt and his chest, in absolute secret, for nearly a year.

A year ago, that day.

The white plane of it, the letters in exotic curves, the red name that wasn't hers. A name that was a secret. Something from a different life. A fragment. A bad memory. A part of her he never knew.

But like her; it's apparent frailty, was deceiving.

There it was, in his palm. So thin, and yet it endured. Soaked with his sweat. Through mortar and fire, across the Universe, through light and time.

Through death.

His muse of ink and paper.

A belief as frail as paper in rain.

The rain upon the desert of his soul. The rain that poured down upon his parched earth from the unfading storm clouds of her eyes. Grey eyes brimming with the water that gave him life. The water breathed spring in the wasteland of his heart.

He touched it to the plates his forehead, a turian kiss. Feeling her. Seeing her.

_I will never fail you. _

He closed his eyes and put it back against his skin. Against his heart which beat steady for the first time in what felt like his entire life.

_Your Spirit, will never die._

He stepped outside his door.

_And Shepard, your nickname, it's good. But I've got one better._

The portal of his first life closed with a clear click.

_You know I keep it classy._

Archangel was born.


	14. Apple of Sodom

Chapter 13: Apple of Sodom

I am Omega.

Its shadow is my own.

Its curves are my body. Yes, every room and hall. Its cameras are my eyes, the glowing screens my face. Doors are locked because I will them so - opened only with my voice. And as I close my eyes in the night which lasts forever here, I am never quite alone.

I am where they go to find the things their world denies them.

I am where they go to feel alive. To remember.

To forget.

I hear their voices calling me. Praying in the dark. Begging me please.

I hear you, little pawns. I will take your crosses, your burdens, so heavy. You can leave them all with me.

You need only to ask to receive.

You can have it all. Anything you want. The things only I can give.

For a price.

Because I am merciful, yes...merciful.

And you are the blood which gives me life.

And I..I am your Queen. My throne is information. My kingdom is desire.

So when I see a stranger sitting at _my_ bar.

Well.

I find out who the _fuck_ he is.

I was tired. Ten and half hours of club music blasting in one's ears while a grown-ass krogan gang-lord whines like a infant over his fourteenth lost shipment of sand or guns or whatever the fuck – well, you tend to get a little thirsty. You want out. A little 'me time'. _I don't caaare_ about your misplaced shit, Garm. The inability of the Blood Pack to watch over its own property simply does not concern me – sorry. Don't have anything to trade? Mmm. Oh well. Then fuck your lost shipments, less competition for me. Don't take it personal.

It's just business.

Really.

You surreptitious, backstabbing son of a bitch.

Suffice it to say a lot of people don't know two key facts about the illustrious, notorius me – with very good reason, I might add. And those two key facts, along with a whole army of other aces up my sleeve, are what separates me from the animals. However, because I value our trusted friendship, (I really do) I'll let you in on a few vital points. Just for fun.

Number One: I started my career as a dancer.

Number Two: I never exactly quit.

So after I shooed the little flies away, I slipped through the private door in the back of my office, down a narrow flight of stairs edged by my favorite boys, and disappeared into my inner sanctum as quiet as a lamb. The room is sex incarnate – black leather everything, wreathed in digital fire. Even the drapes and my vanity – yes, the rumors are true, I'm vain. So what. I work an eighty hour week, and that's when things are light. You just don't get to be the undisputed kingpin of the Terminus System shadow world by being idle.

So when I play, I play hard.

Even though I'm technically still working.

I stripped off my clothes, tossing my finery on my chair and slipped into my shower to rinse all the filth of my world from my flesh…but I suppose there's a layer that never really washes off. I've been told it's what gives me my certain glow. That eh, _je ne sais quoi_ as the humans say, that pins men right into my palm, and in due time, beneath my heel.

Where they belong.

Thank the Goddess I have a nice ass. It's made my job so, so much easier.

Males of any species are hilarious creatures. I've had centuries to observe their bestial tendencies. It's their constant, unyielding predisposition to underestimate me that has secured my holdings time and time again. They all want the same thing; no matter how nice or how caring they pretend to be. And it's not just sex - that's only the short answer. It's also not just that they want you to be their mother, that's still short term thinking. What men want, more than anything else in the galaxy – and I've seen it my whole life and made an empire out of it – is control. Plain and simple. Find out what a male wants to control, and you control him. And why does it work like a charm time and time again?

Because they are actually stupid enough to think that we don't want exactly the same thing.

I laugh. I laugh at their idiocy.

So ladies, take it from me. The key to a man's heart is pretty straightforward, but there are a couple of different doors. You can go through his stomach, if you're a pussy; you can go through his loins, if you're daring, or you can go through his ego, if you're smart. And this is what leads me back to dancing. Why am I, the most powerful Asari in the galaxy, still performing - I can hear you ask?

Because, my children, it's amazing what men will confess when their trying to get laid.

Truly amazing.

I swear to the Goddess there is no end to their ignorance; every single species – they're all the same. The exact fucking same. Thank you, Goddess, for testosterone. Get them worked up and they'll say anything – even cut off their leg, _haha, funny story there_ - but I digress. So another pathetic tidbit is the fact that they are quite literally all blind, laughably so when they're good and drunk. Apparently, my ass and tits are so interesting that they have absolutely no concept that just a layer of paint over my ink with some extra swirls and shit, stilettos and a set of contacts are the only disguise I need to become completely invisible. Just another blue body in the dark. So convenient that their objectification of us is so strong they literally can not see enough difference between us to know when death is sitting in their lap.

And so when I get them to that special place where vision goes fuzzy and touch governs all, the place of no thought, where existence and logic melt into nothing more than the most base of urges - that is where my talents truly shine. Give me your tired eyes, your sore muscles. Give me your absence of faith – let me help you. Let me fill you. Let me hold you. Tell me what frightens you. Tell me what you want. Whisper it to me, beg me please, please "save me". Whisper it with your eyes. Whisper it with your body. Just say the word. I can make you strong through your weakness.

I can even make you forget.

Just let me in the door.

Go on.

You just have to invite me in.

And they do. Even though they know, deep down beyond their reason, how it's going to end. They just can't stop themselves.

It would be insulting if it wasn't so profitable.

Nobody knows I do this; nobody. Not even my double. Even she's too stupid to realize that it's her boss up there, upside down on that pole, making more money for this place in one night that all the rest of the dead weight combined. They say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. There isn't much that's closer than a lap dance to let you see someone's true colors.

Well, actually there is, but I reserve that for especially difficult cases.

So, some more advice, my darlings, my final piece, and listen close. It's impossible to judge someone by how they treat their superiors (that's me) because everyone's an ass kisser when they're either afraid of you, or trying to get something from you – and in my case it's usually both. And that's why when you really want answers, in all their ugly truth, you have to put yourself below your mark.

In a man's eyes, there isn't much that's lower than what he considers to be a whore, even if that is precisely what he wants. And there's nothing more that a man loves and hates and hates to love more than just that.

A whore.

That is why I never quit.

And that is why I'm Queen.

I emerged into my underworld, the vision of sin. The beat fast and the bass down low, I glistened in black latex with a crimson bar across my eyes; sweat and sex in my six inch heels. I spotted him seated at the bar, his long body leaned over, staring into a Palaven Sunrise (how befitting); mind and eyes drifting in the vastness of his glass, swimming in its secrets. He wasn't drinking cheap, which was my first clue. And I'd seen him around, and yet he never came to see me. Well, the other me.

So what the hell was he here for?

I moved my hips with the music, one foot before the other. All asari can do this, don't let the prude deniers of our natural gifts deceive you. Even the most scholarly little virgin knows how to cross (and uncross) her legs. It's our birthright. Our survival. He saw my approach (how could he not?) but didn't falter. Good, a challenge. I draped myself over the seat next to him, and touched a pointed black nail to the bar. A drink appeared. I leaned in close, my eyes searching his face, which gave so little away in its mask of fire light.

"Homesick?" I asked, my voice sweltering.

He turned his eyes and stared me down, his gaze brimming with intensity.

"Hardly."

I smirked, tracing my nail over a salted rim.

"A turian on Omega...So what is it, sweetheart? Too many rules? Just couldn't take being just another gear in the machine?"

His eyes traced over the arc of my spine, almost with an air of disinterest. Almost.

"Something like that. Especially when it was broken to begin with."

I drank, my eyes black slits. I leaned in close, my nose grazing the flesh beneath his fringe, as he turned his head away from me.

Silly Turian, no one turns away from me.

"You smell like frictionless lubricant. So...are you a freelancer or just lonely?"

That got a smirk. He took a sip, and set his glass down, unmoved although his voice flanged low.

"A little of both, I'm afraid."

"Nice rifle. Perhaps you can show me how to use it later?"

He eyed me with a deadly glare.

"I get the feeling you're dangerous enough."

How could I not smile.

"You feel correctly."

His mandible twitched. He was thinking behind those ice cold eyes.

"...I don't want a dance."

"Neither do I."

Our eyes locked. There was only the music. A heartbeat in the tension.

"I'm not interested."

"Your tongue denies what your eyes desire."

"_Really?_ And just what is that?"

"…Company."

A blue inferno in his lenses, his body radiating heat as I leaned in close, drawing his scent as I slipped my face down his long neck, their skin more sensitive than you would believe. That's what I always liked about turians. It was so easy to tell when they were aroused.

"So…how long has it been?"

"That…is not for you to know."

"Just thought I would ask," I recrossed my legs and leaned over the bar, mimicking his body language, "You look like you could use a friend."

Pain glimmered, so fleeting, across those lenses for just a moment, but he swallowed it, unyielding. Controlled.

He let out a soft snort, and raised his glass to his mouth again, staring off into the void.

"The last time I asked an asari for something, well. I got what was coming to me."

_"Punishment?"_ I probed, leaning in again, smiling, whispering. _"Were you bad?"_

He glared at me, and turned his eyes away, saying nothing.

Go on, keep playing hard to get.

"There's an interesting thing we say about this place. An insightful cultural difference; in the asari tongue, it translates to "Heart of Evil"...yet I have heard your kind refers to it as "The Place Without Law."

I was getting close. But he was patient, and disciplined.

I hate that.

"You can ignore me if you like. But its written on your face."

His eye darted to me, cleaving his wall of stoicism.

"Indulge me."

I slowly flicked my glance back this way, and entered him through his eyes, pouring myself through, earning the deep set linger of his gaze.

"Your scars. You've been burned."

His plates crossed, considering me carefully with a expression that spoke of curiosity.

"I don't have any scars."

"Not on the surface. But spend enough time here and that's destined to change."

I drank deeply, and turned away from him, playing the game.

"Don't worry turian, soon your outsides will match your in." I remarked, my voice slipping soft and low.

"Is that so?" he asked, in intrigued vibrations.

"Yes. And then you'll have no problem keeping company,"

I tossed a sly glance back over my shoulder. His eyes blazed, squalls of impenetrable thought. My teeth moved, my forked tongue working within them.

"…Some women like scars."

Heated quietude. _Yes, drink the nectar and slip into my pitcher. You'll find that it's warm there._

"And what kind of women are those?" asked he as he watched me roll my neck, displaying its sanguinary grace.

I turned back away, the smile still clinging to my lips as I drained the thin remainder of my glass.

"Only the dangerous ones."

I played with the ice cubes, clinking them around. I watched the other patrons, oblivious to my aim. The bartender, watering down the drinks of the inebriated. The women, which worked their charms. The idiots that fell for them; so hollow, so transparent.

After what felt like the perfect length of silence, I arched my spine and slowly cast my most smoldering of glances over my shoulder once again.

Where it fell upon an empty chair.

I blinked. I stared.

"What the…f…"

I stood up, eyes searching, my heart suddenly furious with adrenaline.

Gone.

He was fucking gone.

I raced to my security terminal through a back entrance; and scoured, the rage rising from my gut to my throat in a caustic tempest .

The video was blank.

Blank.

_Motherfucker._

* * *

The door to the safe house glided open. Archangel slid in, as silent as the night. Eleven sets of eyes dropped what they were doing and glanced up, reverent in the bated quiet, as he stormed the room, his deep voice slicing through the dark.

"No more down time in Afterlife. Aria T'Loak is posing as a dancer now."

* * *

Author's Note:

"The best way to drive out the devil...is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn."

- Luther


	15. If a Butterfly Flaps its Wings on Earth

Chapter 14: If a Butterfly Flaps its Wings on Earth…

At first, he worked alone.

Thieves and larcenists, executives and smugglers, the dark, the dirty and depraved; they walked and laughed and traded their abducted contraband in the open air of the ancient grit smeared shipyards of the filth-wrought mushroom cloud of Omega. Hallex, element zero, red sand, children, women, colonists, weapons; all flotsam that floated and bobbed in a recondite river of commodities. A river that ebbed and flowed, from garbage ships and mining transports, private vessels and corsairs. For those with the in, these with the days, and that was the time – and the middle of a moonless night - was the peak hour. And so they played, and swaggered; pointing to the dizzyingly massive shipping containers which floated calmly from one vessel's hold to another on the steely fingers of magnetic cranes – calling out their exorbitant prices, shaking hands, accepting bribes and traceless currency.

The narcotic numb of unbridled success, the maiming confidence of hubris. Each and every one of them unaware of the cold eye which absorbed it all.

A silhouette, a spotter's scope, and a vendetta.

He sleuthed them, a shadow in a shadow. Through a far wide lens watched a fixed gaze at the end of a long body pressed low and splay legged against faceless concrete in the distant shade of the night that never lifted; whispering details into a visor that recorded everything in digital carbon. The details of a deceptively simple plan.

When the first distribution rail, an artery carrying a steady stream of smuggled weaponry across the main outposts of the Eclipse controlled territories, crashed – it appeared to be an accident. Twenty four cars carrying hundreds of tons of illicit weaponry and tech, utterly annihilated. Gone. The wreckage and the flames the price paid for a tiny, crippling error: somehow, the tram's computer had forgotten how to brake. And so, scratching their heads, the leadership of Eclipse was forced to redirect their largest supply line to their separate, older rail. It took weeks; bleeding their mercenary militias dry and causing them to lose thousands in contracts on top of the millions in infrastructure damage. But, when at last they got the second train running and not six hours into operation it erupted into an explosion that leveled eight city blocks of their own warehouses, they drew their cold breaths and knew.

This was no accident. It was open assault.

Paranoid from decades of infighting, they immediately suspected their competition. The flames of old hatred fed by the analysis of the explosives used – an exotic ultrapure synthetic nitroglycerine laced with element zero exclusively imported by the Blue Suns. Only ten pounds necessary to indebt their holdings for years, only one shot from pushing the careful financial planning of an empire to the edge of extinction.

To elicit quiet laughter, as the world burned through the crosshairs of his lens, still shaken from the kickback.

To cause his eyes to betray a smile, as the monster of Eclipse sank its many teeth into throat of the Blue Suns.

Although it pained him to not be able to take them all out personally, sacrifices had to be made in the interest of efficiency. It simply was not necessary to drop one thousand bodies with one thousand bullets, when you only needed one. Especially when the busy work was being done so quickly for you. And so, incensed beyond all thought or reason, the two factions murdered each other in legion. So busy were they incinerating each others assets that no one stopped to appreciate how beautifully they were being played.

And so with two of the three black hands of Omega locked in mortal combat, he set his wintery eye upon the Blood Pack from his place on a derelict roof so far away. The long hours of the night stretched on, but he did not move although the coldness of the roof beneath him sharply fatigued his muscles. But his body was trained beyond this pain, this aching; he acknowledged the pangs without ever acquiescing to them. He was so still he became part of the structure itself, just another ridge of grey, pressed low and flat in his perfect vantage just behind a ventilation duct. He was in the most vagrant ward of the asteroid; the place where addicts and drifters went to die. The east side of the Yurei district, where the darkly lit streets looked like broken bones beneath the rusted lights flickering with interference, where the glass was broken everywhere, and all was misted in a mask of dull, polluted grime.

Through a six inch slot in the air beneath the raspy thin remnants of his duct, he had watched the evenings unfold for weeks in his place upon the cracked and shaded roof, his eyes unchanging as he plotted in exact mathematical precision, the fucking schedule of the warlord Garm with his long line of whores. Each night lay the turian cloaked in russet noctilucence, crossing off the days on the calendar the krogan visited his sullen bordello until a pattern emerged. With the other two factions fighting, the Blood Pack was getting bold.

Too bold. Delighted with the weakening of his direct competitors, he observed as the cocksure krogan fell into the presumptuous habit of going out alone. All of this, the bitter fruit six months of toil and surveillance, hanging on a delicate branch known to only one man – ready to be plucked.

Just one man.

Or two. And a woman.

Because in every story there is a woman.

Before Archangel, there was Mierin – and unbeknownst to him, he was trespassing in her graveyard.

* * *

Her eyes closed. She tasted the air.

It had changed.

Someone else was spilling blood in the thick nights of hell.

She crouched upon the edge of the sky scraping junkie-dream needles of T'Mhoga, the dark metropolis comprising the largest city on the asteroid, the blasphemous doppelganger to the Presidium. The deep, ornery voice of a batarian buzzed into a finely tuned azure ear.

"_He should be pulling up any second. Taxi number MS3216, already paid. Card linked to a "Han Jaedsper."_

"_Han Jaedsper… He used that one before. For that shitty motel on the edge of the Borderlands."_

"_Yeah I guess that's his name this week. If this is even the same guy."_

"_It is. It has to be. What about the others?"_

"_I did some digging. Mind you there were thirty seven names, so the fucking metrics took forever."_

"_Just get to it."_

"_I am. He has certainly picked some interesting ones – Fett Khan, Robert Paulson. You'll find this interesting – they're all from one place."_

"_Really?"_

"_Guess from where?"_

"…_I don't feel like games tonight, Vortash. Enlighten me."_

"_The Citadel, my blue friend. They stretch back over a period of six years. Murders, missing person's reports, suicides, et cetera. Some are even from people that disappeared in the geth attack this year."_

"…_Interesting."_

"_Don't get wet just yet, they all check out except for one. The one he's using right now, linked to a fresh bank account. Han Jaesdper – can't find it anywhere. And if I can't find it, it doesn't exist."_

She watched the taxi pull to the side of the acid soaked street, still steaming from the chemical rains which fell there every night about this time. _Hello Han… _her mind whispered.

The cab drove away. The figure of a six and a half foot Turian slid out into the acrid night, walking fast down the block in his smooth gait, the glow of the digital advertisements illuminating the outline of a crested frill from deep within the hood on his trench coat, unmistakable even three hundred stories below.

The lips of the huntress twisted to a smile beneath her black mask.

_I see you._

"_Mark confirmed. Solid visual on a Turian on foot down the 3200 block of T'Mhoga."_

"_I knew it. Each name links to one – they're all the same guy, they have to be. I figured only a Turian could be so clinical. Any idea where he's going?"_

"_I'm willing to bet another store room. He keeps everything separate, spread out – but he never sleeps with all his guns. Different place each night, I think. But if I know our guy, he's going to spend two hours backpedaling and changing clothes to shake anybody following."_

"_Aww, it's sweet how he tries to be so careful."_

Mierin bit her lip, the jagged vein in her forehead pulsing as she concentrated, looking through her digital magnifier, taking snapshots as he moved.

"_He is careful. If we're right, this is the guy that took down Eclipse's rail system and made it look like sabotage. This fucker just single-handedly ignited the first open civil war between Eclipse and The Blue Suns in fifty-seven years…He's not just good,"_

She slowly shook her masked head with a sigh, her intense violet eyes watching him calmly cross a bustling intersection, slicing right through it like water. Not a single step off beat.

"…_He's a genius."_

"_Try to quell your ladyboner Mierin."_

"_Fuck you and your four eyes, Vortash. Are you even getting this feed? I'm tired of this fucking acid rain jacking with my equipment."_

"_Yeah I got it. You might want to head into the cruiser soon, he's getting kind of far…"_

* * *

The vigilante huntress of Omega had followed the carnage for months on an instinct honed razor sharp from two hundred years of killing out of spite. He was a faceless spectre whose race she guessed before she ever even glimpsed him. In her gut she suspected only a turian could be as surgical; so complete in his planning. She had never seen anyone in all her years that was so dauntless. Unsettlingly fearless. She wondered where the fury of his hand stemmed from, if it was like her own; a deep chasm in one's soul that never healed, cut from sudden loss. A vampire and a demon that only blood could sate. She knew it well. The hungry ghost in her shadow that only ate death – shaped in the dark outline of her sister, cut down by Eclipse. And so she tracked the invisible intruder upon her place of vengeance, determined to root him out of her terretory.

Her hell.

She set her gun down on the blue coverlet of her bed, slipping into the pitch black of her hideout without turning on the lights, invisible in its disguise as an abandoned apartment in the Kima district. Vortash was still in the basement, either continuing to go through his analytics of their turian friend or planting viruses in the data holds of his former employer, the Shadow Broker, for his own amusement. Something he used to do with his daughter.

Used to.

It was already morning, for what it mattered on the sunless rock, but she was still wide awake. She slipped her clothes off in the dark, her mind still fixed on the name which had been haunting her since they first discovered it a week ago. The other aliases made sense, they were smart, resourceful, cunning. A good use of resources. But this one…There was something wrong about it.

Different.

_Han Jaedsper._

Her eyes were glassed over as she unhooked her bra, the name taunting her with an icy chill.

_Jaedsper… _

Why did she feel that déjà vu? Where was it coming from?

_Han Jaedsper…_

And the others, and the Citadel... Her mind turned and turned, she tried to lay down, but her heart kept pounding as something poked her intuition right on the edge of her brain. _Jaedsper…The Citadel… Jaedsper…_

Pissed, she sat straight up in her bed, snatched a datapad and a stylus from her nightstand and began to write.

Something was off.

She scribed the letters in their original Standard Human English, one by one, in all caps:

HAN JAEDSPER

She bit her lip. She moved them all together.

HANJAEDSPER

She looked at the word as a whole, trying to cease seeing it as a name.

AD HEN JASPER

Mierin turned her head, and wrote again.

A SHARPENED J

She erased.

DEJA SHARPEN

Her brow crossed. She stared at the shimmering words.

JAR PEN SHADE

No. She rearranged. Again.

SHE RED JAPAN

Her heart began to pound.

_She._

_Goddess…Not "he" but…_

JADE SHARPEN

A name within a name. Her hands began to shake. _Athame, show me…_

JEAN DASHPER

She was breathing unevenly her eyes fixed on the second word as he heart raced so hard she could hear it, her hands shaking so hard the letters looked like insects.

SHEPARD

She pushed out a quivering sigh.

JANE SHEPARD

The data pad fell to the floor as she went barreling out of the room, screaming Vortash's name.

* * *

"VORTASH! SEARCH JANE SHEPARD!"

He turned to her, all four of his dark eyes staring in agitated disbelief as his round of "star destroyer" crashed. He spit angrily into his cup.

"This better be fucking good, do you know how long-"

"IT'S AN ANAGRAM! HAN JAEDSPER IS AN ANAGRAM!"

Vortash froze, his mind halted by the look on her flushed face. And suddenly, the hacker, so used to games and codes flushed with anger and embarrassment.

How could he have not seen it.

"_Motherfucker."_ he breathed, letting his cup fall to the floor, throwing off the food wrappers that had clogged up his scratch built work station, its twelve screens glowing intensely in the dark as his fingers came alive, Mierin still in the process of putting a shirt on as she swooped down to the seat beside him. They both knew who she was, but he read anyway, in robotic tones.

"Jane Shepard, Commanding Officer of the Alliance SSV-Normandy SR1. Born 04.11 2154, deceased 12.25 2183 age 29, killed in action in an undisclosed location. Personal security number THX 1138. Planet of origin Earth, New Quebec, Canada. Orphaned - parents unknown, history of family illness – unknown, genetic mapping – unknown. Racial lineage – unknown. All records are gone after age 18, all I have is a military enlistment date; looks like the work of an Alliance data wiper. Shit."

He swore bitterly, his fingers moving in rapid crescendo, making angry sounds against the plastic.

"Shit - I can't get anything else - it's like she's just a cutout. Just an idea and a fucking dog tag."

"Who was on her ship? I need all their names, they have to be written somewhere – this guy, I think he was someone -"

"Gone. All wiped. Like it never existed."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Wait – hold on. There's something here. Fuck. _Shit_."

"_What?"_

"_Shut up I'm concentrating!"_

"_Translate dammit, I can't read hacker-bullshit code!"_

"FINE JUST SHUT UP! There's a…a Jane Shepard reported missing in 2166 from a fire in lower Quebec – D'orphelinaut de Sang Sacre – translator says it's an orphanage. Well, was an orphanage. Description, Caucasian human female with red hair, twelve years old. Police report says something…something about arson. No perp ever found."

Her heart was pounding. She clasped the edges of his chair and put her face beside him, her eyes huge and glistening with the chase.

"_Arson?_ Check the area for police reports of juvenile-"

But his fingers were already moving. They stopped cold. The scowling, black-eyeliner smeared face of a fourteen year old girl with long dirty asymmetrical red hair and her middle finger raised high in her police mugshot stared at them through time.

They stared back.

"Fourteen year old white female, in for drug running and evasion, confirmed link to the…Reds? Some sort of small human crime syndicate. No name, cranial ID chip reportedly cut out. Not a word spoken in interrogation. Tattoo of the word "seraph" in a red star on her left shoulder. Escaped in less than 24 hours, reports say she had an accomplice – unknown."

He turned and met her eye. "Police station went up in flames the same night. Security footage destroyed in the wreckage."

Her skin quivered with adrenaline as their eyes searched each other.

"Search it, dammit. Search the word "seraph".

But he was already moving, a hair ahead of her.

"On it…fuck fuck come on." He rapped the table impatiently. His eyes opened wide as his screens exploded in scrolling letters and numbers.

"There are thousands of results, millions – "

"Narrow the search to just our servers, here on Omega. Put in the word "red" or "star" or her name our something. This girl, this arsonist - doesn't look like she played clean. And neither does our guy, our little anagram loving turian."

"Running. Running…"

A match flickered across the screen in gently blinking green. A screen name, parceled to a private Omega extranet service provider.

"I've got a screen name. "redseraph'– fuck, fuck I've got her logs, look!"

* * *

_"content type"=/PRIVATE_transcription-[ /server24^omega_q22|sma*/file]_

_!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_47_

_!-["redseraph "] replied/8.06.2183.0640_keypath=_

_Arc,_

_My hands are already stained with blood. I didn't want any on yours. You have to go back to the Citadel eventually. Forgive me for not wanting your reputation destroyed. I know enough about Turian culture to not want that on your record._

_-S._

_=/end._

_!-["Arc_3ngel"]received_8.06.2183.0835_

* * *

"I knew it! I knew it! Check his exmail log-"

"-Got it! Look at the one before it – the forty sixth string!"

* * *

_!DOCTYPE_Exmail_String_46_

_! -["Arc_3ngel"] replied/7.29.2183.1940_keypath=_

_Seraph,_

_What the hell happened with Heart? Why did you do that? You led me all the way out there, I had him in my sights and you took the shot. Again, just what the hell? You know how much nailing that bastard meant to me. And why won't you talk to me – you can't hide in your office forever._

_-3ngel_

_=/end._

_!-["redseraph "] received_7.29.2183.0432_

* * *

"Holy fuck look at the date - 7.29.2183 - motherfucker, these were the guys that got Saleon. Goddamn thieves, we'd been hunting him for months!"

"Look, look she said the Citadel, and she called him a turian – check C-Sec, check the C-Sec listings –"

"There are thousands of turians in C-Sec, how the fuck – "

"Then run through the absentee reports – discharges, firings - cross reference the times with the dock logs of the Normandy off the Citadel! Think, dammit! He couldn't have been in two places at once."

"Ok, ok – running, running…uh, I've got…I've got a lot of C-Sec turians here, damn, why do they all have to look the same…wait."

He froze. He began to slowly type. Mierin was staring, chewing the skin off of the inside of her lip until it bled.

"Vortash, talk to me." said she in wavering tones.

But he was simply staring at his screens.

"I…I think I have it…"

A scan of the decommissioned C-Sec badge of Garrus Vakarian splashed across six of his twelve screens.

He turned and looked at her. But her eyes were glued to the blue-lined plates of a Turian with cold eyes.

Vortash looked back to his screens, and spoke.

"...This...This is the guy they put on Heart…Saleon, whatever. The same guy they put on Saren. He was fired and left through Citadel immigration the same day that Shepard checked into C-Sec for a security clearance for some sort of council hearing. After that…he disappears for close to a year. Then he's back – the time syncs up with the Normandy docking again, then he leaves separate from the ship, and a few months later everything's wiped. Just like Shepard."

They said nothing for an entire minute. Then Vortash began again, in a quiet voice, to read the story of a second stranger.

"Vakarian, Garrus, now 30. Born 11.16 2154. Father, Achille Vakarian, Director of Criminal Investigations at C-Sec, office on the Presidium. Mother, Athene Vakarian, ex-sniper with Turian military – potentially spectre, can't quite tell, currently rotting away in a hospital near their home in Palaven with Corpalis Syndrome, _shit._ Sister, Solana Vakarian, 22, doctoral student in psychiatric medicine. That's…kind of fucked up."

"…Keep reading."

"So," breathed Vortash as he gleaned the pages, "Perfect, perfect, perfect. No history of violence, no behavioral infractions…at least at first… Entered his public service right on time at age 15. Oh. Lots of promotions, went right into specialized sniper training – just like mom, apparently. Damn, he was leaping up the ranks, look – recommended for Spectre candidacy three times then boom, withdrawn, and transplanted on the Citadel in C-Sec at age 23."

"Transplanted?"

"Yeah, look. Daddy's name on all the paper work. Coincidentally, that's when the problems start. Promotions stagnated at investigator. Shit ton of behavioral infractions. Insubordination, lots of incomplete cases."

"He got angry." She turned her eyes from the turian to Shepard. "Didn't like being told what to do."

"No shit. And then he just disappeared. Ran off with Shepard."

"So…" said Mierien, soaking in the lascivious knowledge, wreathing her long blue fingers together as she reclined pensively in her chair. "They knew each other well."

"Judging from the exmails and the fact that he's using her name a year after the fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they were involved. Had more in common than meets the eye, with her past she probably brought something out of him he never got to use in C-Sec. And how he just disappears after her death…"

"But he didn't." smiled Mierin, her eyes pulling into dark slits as she looked from Shepard's mugshot at fourteen to the turian's C-Sec ID, his controlled expression in stark contrast to the fiery young thing juxtaposed to his side, forever in time.

The huntress's eyes gleamed.

"_No one_ escapes their past."

* * *

Three nights later, it was late, and Archangel finally ceded to the desire for rest.

Exhausted, he dialed into his enclave of weapons (concealed in a rented storage room wired with enough of his stolen eezo nitroglycerine to take out a quarter of the city) to drop off his rifle, grab his bug-out bag and change ID's, for tomorrow he was leaving that district entirely to follow his quarry to the next.

But when the door opened, he found the room had no power.

Rifle out, he sliced immediately to a corner, his back to the wall, the thermal imaging on his visor immediately switching on and coming up cold in every corner, yet he did not trust it.

His heart racing, he peered through the darkness as the acid rain roared outside, splashing violently into his hidden cell. He shook with adrenaline and paranoia, unmoving even as the rain burned through his trench coat in horizontal blows. Finally, for the sake of his equipment, he smashed the garage door down behind him without taking his eye out of his sights, slowly, slowly clearing the room.

The room that was untouched, save for a single chair in its center, deliberately moved, cradling a rifle with a jagged, slender piece of metal slid down its long barrel.

With shaking hands, he lowered his gun, his heart pounding, as his fingers slipped around the metal shard.

A piece of the train, collected from the wreckage, its Eclipse colors still clinging to one side.

His stomach in ice, he turned it over, and looked through his visor in the quivering dark. Long letters graced its side in a tiny, straightforward hand.

Written in black lipstick.

_You are not as invisible as you think._

_See you AROUND, Archangel._

In horror he turned around, and laid eyes upon the scrawl on the door that he saw now only that it was down.

_Anagrams are fun, aren't they? Here's one for you:_

_I'm in. Make teem_

He stared as his heart pounded so hard he thought he would die, his algorithmic mind instantaneously seeing the letters for what they truly were, in manifest truth as he decoded the message written by an unseen hand.

_Meet me in Kima._


	16. The Professional

Chapter 15: The Professional

Thirty minutes later, he stood in the shivering gloom of the Kima underground, breath uneven, caught in the freezing terror that is specific to the knowledge of being watched.

Followed.

The doors of the hovering bullet train slid shut pitilessly, abandoning him in the endless tunnel which stretched back into black infinity. Hands tight in his deep pockets, his overcoat still slick with tendrils of acidic rain, he walked as surely as he could, his fingers steady - but his mind twitching for his trigger. Dressed as a civilian, he summoned everything he could recall from his short lived spectre training as he walked the line. He struggled to calm his mind by breathing his nerves into submission, slowing the thoughts which streaked through him like lights passing on an express lane. This was it; the test – he wished he would have paid more attention - just one more joule of energy, just one more note in the margins of his memory - to what his melted old instructor had said in those classes which seemed so far away, beneath long dead stars.

Fieldcraft ,remaining unseen in the background, was the twin skill to his prowess with a rifle, for one is not in truth a sniper until one commands both. The turian had paid for his exceptional skill with time and blood, more than enough of which was his own. His years in the military and law enforcement had sharpened the hiding game he used to play with his mother as a child into a way of life, something so natural to him it was as autonomic as breath and as regular as sleep. Ten thousand hours of camouflage had revealed to him their ancient secret – the subtle process of vaporization that transmuted one's flesh into the inanimate; the art of invisibility.

First he learned to blend and to fade, and then in time, to become; a thousand blades of grass, water as smooth as mercury or that undulating as in a storm. A ledge on a building or the sand of a desert; he became and became, each environment a new chrysalis that birthed his talent into deeper states of evolution until not single form of natural or architectural terrain remained that daunted him. Any environment, any weather, whether for five minutes or five months; so skilled was he that he needed merely to touch a stone to become it, his fingers and eyes more finely tuned and capable of death than any weapon he held, for he understood an elusive truth about the nature of man and machine, eye, air, and trigger.

He could root out the essential details of any area in seconds. Escape routes, points of entry, vantages, light sources, the potentiality of cover points, how charges would flow through them – to what degree any resulting shrapnel would damage a target or hostage standing at A,B, or C; the resulting change of flight path of said charge in degrees, entrance and exit wound anatomy, ballistic deformation, and on and on and on. He could do this so quickly and so completely that it was not even second nature but the nature of the man himself, so unconscious that it was not a choice he made as he entered a space, but the definition of how he perceived the world in its entirety.

But this wasn't sniping, not even infiltration. In fact, it was a sniper's worst nightmare.

The open. Where fieldcraft ended. For there was no field, no architecture.

The environment was the crowd. The sea of targets at which he almost always gazed but never was a part of. This was exactly where field craft ended, and espionage began. He was jaggedly out of his element.

One heavy step before the other, he tread in the shadows, passing the vagrants in their feculent trembling; the sniper nothing but numbed gaze behind the lucent beryl glow of a visor that absorbed everything it touched.

His senses were so high that time drifted like a continent; he tilted his head, straining to hear sounds that were little else than deconstructed vibrations. He redirected and turned for the outside light filtering down the archaic, rotting metal staircase that divulged the age of the ancient rail line. He didn't know what or who he was looking for; the words written on the metal in his storeroom trailing over and over before his eyes, tormenting his mind with a splintered hook, burning to be drawn.

The words on the door.

_Meet me in Kima…_

Black lipstick.

Lips.

A flash of grey eyes. The world disappeared.

The scent of water.

Skin. Intoxication.

A soft navel beneath his palm.

His breath, stolen.

Reality.

Blinding neon-colored lights and strange faces.

_Keep moving. _

It was a trap, it had to be. But if it was, why didn't they just kill him then? If they could simply disable his explosives, and he had no idea how they did – why did they not simply reprogram the whole system to explode on impact? Why did they not just assassinate him once he entered the room?

Why lead him all the way out here, in the middle of the street, to kill him? And more importantly, who? How did they know, and why would they come to him directly, while the gangs still fought, and Garm still carried on, ignorant to his presence, as sated as a child…

And as he cerebrated that thought, he came to the conclusion, that it could not be a trap in the truest and most violent sense of the word, and further, it was not the thought of his death that disturbed him as he stalked those futuristic streets still glistening in their dystrophic grime.

He was bothered that he had been outclassed.

The humid night air descended on him, palpable in its acrid moisture, as he ascended into the rubicund halo of the pulsing streets, packed with drinkers ravenous in the witching hour. He stalked through them, hidden, melting into the hundreds of faces; his immense concentration not reaching his plates, as he willed himself into becoming just another xeroxed turian.

A scan of an ideal.

Electric droning and chest piercing beats moved the evening and the ear drum as a cacophony of mechanized music poured out from countless bars and collected in the seething valley lined with raw industrial architecture. He walked, the rhythmic sounds moving him with the crowd in a pulse that felt like a heartbeat, as he flowed into it, evaporating into the continuous mass.

And then, he saw her.

The crowd was an ocean. Through it walked a serpent.

Six feet tall. Her body swam through the dark and the warmth of the forms around her; both a part of it and alone. He instantly had the coldest feeling that the only reason he could see her was that she had willed it so. The bodies around her were oblivious to her presence, and yet were her servants. They cleaved for the phantom, the sphinx - as each heeled foot struck the pavement with vengeance. Omega was too filthy for the red soles of her shoes, the red soles that tread on the wings of fallen angels. Her hips moved like serpents, a sliver of muscle that cut into a hornet's waist, varnished in an obsidian sheath of a coat that fell to her ankles, rimmed in gleaming raven fur.

Eyes smoldering in smoky rims, aphotic behind a veil of mesh. Skin as azure as the darkest sea. Legs that went forever. Lips as black as onyx.

The Huntress named Mierin.

They saw each other and knew.

And now, a dance. Viper versus praying mantis.

It happened in five seconds.

She sliced through the distance between them and pressed her body against his, sliding two slender gloved arms around his curved back as she drew him in to an embrace to the untrained eye, but in truth to search him. She skimmed her sharpened fingers down his sides and memorized the rock hard edge of a collapsed M-15 Vindicator clicked into the electromagnet of a holster concealed in the narrow curve of his alien waist, obscured by the straight cut fabric of his coat. Heat, and in a flash she knew all she had sought and she went to pull away, until she felt a lean hand close tight against her spine.

Paralysis – agony - her eyes snapped back, millimeters away from his - fiercely, hatefully blazing as his other his hand slid up her thigh through the evil slit in her trench that cut all the way up to her hip, past the M-5 Phalanx held into the garter holster pressed to the inside of her leg. In a millisecond his thumb and forefinger viced around her femoral artery - puncturing the latex of her stocking and sinking into her flesh. He coldly watched her shock she shuddered with a lightning strike of suffering against him, eyes shaking in hate – as he cut into her hard enough to atrophy but not to kill.

Checkmate.

"_Start talking."_

"_No. We walk together, now. Here there are eyes everywhere."_

Violet irises like nebulas flashed beneath her veil and he read them. It was true. In a single fluid motion, he slipped his hand out of her coat, wiped her blood in his pocket, and slid it forcefully around her waist, pulling her to his hip beside him, in the appearance of a couple. They strode with feigned easiness as he leaned and whispered in her ear.

"_Don't you ever touch me again."_

"_I won't."_ She breathed in even tones, her lips barely moving, _"I needed to know if and what you were carrying."_

"_You could have asked."_ He snarled, staring forcibly ahead as unknown faces whirled by, caught in snapshot and frozen expressions, halfway through their laughs and thoughts as the two ghosts cut through them, speaking on a different plane. She retorted in unfettered confidence,

"_You would have simply lied."_

They walked, side by side, beneath the suffused glare of advertisements and signage in a dozen tongues, beside the simmering vapor of dingy food stands with derelict looking patrons, beneath the lines of swiftly moving traffic which hovered above like bees in a thousand lanes of aerial traffic. His eyes darted from face to passing face, reading for certain danger, as he hissed his next question.

"_Who are you?"_

He saw her sneer almost imperceptibly, the contempt icing her voice even through the half-whisper.

"_You ask the wrong questions. What matters more is how I found you, and be glad I did, because right now your greatest advantage is that they don't know you exist."_ She exhaled, spitting her last word out keenly,

"_Yet."_

His eyes tore into her, striking the side of her face, but she pressed unphased on as they reached a bustling crosswalk which formed a massive bridge that arced over the rushing wasteland beneath it, the taste of garbage and industrial waste filtering through their noses and onto their tongues. Her black lips pursed the words as he followed in her heels which coldly tapped the pavement, listening indignantly.

"_What do you want?"_ he shot as quietly as he could, losing his patience with her cryptic games. He had had about enough of asari and their roundabout bullshit. But to his supreme surprise, she twisted her head back like a serpent and fired a look into his eyes with an intensity that nearly stopped him cold.

"The same thing as you. Now shut up and let me explain to you how _to not_ become a casualty, you arrogant asshole."

He blinked, mouth parted a little.

"…I'm listening."

"Then you are wise_._" she shot, pulling him across the street at a crosswalk without a functioning light. He felt her tense beneath his hand, her muscles becoming steel as they walked beneath decrepit street lamps in an increasingly residential burrow. She spoke in ardently controlled tones, mindful of her volume, speaking so that only he could hear. "You are inordinately fortunate. If _I_ can find you, _they_ can find you – and after your stunt with the train, as impressed as I am, I have to tell you frankly and unabasheldy, that you cannot do this alone."

He shook his head, words escaping him.

"How did you…"

But she cut him off, both his sentence and his balls in one fell swoop.

"You know, that visor has a GPS."

His heart sank in terror, but his mouth moved in sharp defense, "Impossible. I cloaked it months ago."

She emitted a soft snort, fueling his visible disdain for her.

"Fortunately, you are good shot. I would stick to that."

He stared at her, feeling intense animosity and overwhelming curiosity that consumed him in conflict, ensnaring his attention, as she led him through a rusting archway, into a grid of identical obelisks coated in a fine industrial ash. Quiet as space, lightless except for the weak stains of stars.

A graveyard.

"I've been watching you for months. I thought about killing you. It would have been easy. You always pick the same piece of shit motels to sleep in, and your check in times are as regular as trigonometry. You eat at the same times every day, drink the same things. You may have had dozens of names, but your identity is always exactly the same because it's yours. No change in your posture, no difference in your step. You drink only alcohol and tea - a dead give away. You have _no concept_ of how to transcend your own personality undercover. You know the _mechanics,_ but not the _art._"

Her critiques deeply insulted him, yet, the way she spoke - her clothes, even her movements divulged to him a bitter truth. This was her area of expertise. As he watched her lithely walk beside him, actually being so bold as to educate him as to where he had gone wrong, he could sense a perfectionist like himself. Someone who missed nothing, who was constantly aware, even obsessively so, of an essential details. He understood then, that she could only have been an asari deep cover operative, for probably more years than he would have liked to admit.

"-And nothing looks more suspicious than consistently checking in the early morning and out at late evening. And never pay with a card you fool, even if the accounts are opened and closed in the same week. What were you thinking? You're getting it right by changing locations as often as possible, but you need to break up your habits. Painfully predictable. Not to mention that any additional layer of security over the place you choose to fade into only assists in keeping you unseen. Hiding only amongst the impoverished and addicted is a beginner's mistake. You need to be able to disappear anywhere, and at any time."

"How the hell…"

She turned to him, glaring at him as they passed seemingly endless rows of graves, her mouth still moving fast.

"You only see me right now because I want you to see me. You're fighting a war; a war in which you're outnumbered one thousand to one. The only way, the only chance you have of making an impact, is to become invisible in plain sight. Foolish engineer, you think you can do anything if you think hard enough about it, analyze it to death. No amount of thought alone will make you disappear in a crowd. It must be taught. It must be learned. I can see you're trained, but you are not a master."

"Why do you care? What do you want in this?"

She actually laughed, as she broke from his side and walked on her own, adjusting her couture little veil with an elegance that was both presumptuous and demeaning.

"This is the land without law. You can't possibly think that you are the first person that came here with a vendetta and a deathwish?"

"Actually. I kind of did."

She scoffed.

"Yes, well, you are young."

He stared at her, dumbfounded, entranced, shamed, jealous and angry beyond all reason as he watched her extract an gilded compact from her pocket and glance nonchalantly at her lips through its softly lit mirror, before closing it with a snap.

"I have fought on my own terms for longer than you, your father and his father before him have taken breath. And everyone I have ever seen try to take on this planet alone has failed."

She eyed him harshly. "Everyone."

"I won't."

"Yes, you will. You will fail and you will die because you are just one man."

She stopped suddenly, looking at him with a seriousness that cleaved her mastery of feminine inducement in an instant, peeling back to the desperation hidden below.

"Listen to me, you will die doing this alone. You must listen to me. I've –

She set her eyes away, to the many stones around them.

"I've seen it before…"

The look in her eyes. The hollow mask of loss. He watched her try to appear nonchalant, turning the gorgeous compact over in her leathered fingers, looking carefully astride. Although he sensed it, he asked the question, the obvious question, regardless. He wanted to hear her say it.

"Why do you care? What do you want in this?"

"Look around you. Do you know what this is?"

"…Graves."

She shook her head, impatiently. She met his eyes again, and reverted back to her mysteries.

"Look on the stones. What do you see?"

"…"

"They don't have names, do they? Come on mastermind, _humor me_."

"...No. No they do not."

He had a suspicion of what she was getting at. He inwardly sighed, prepared for yet another speech.

"These, are the unmarked graves of everyone who ever stood up to the Blue Suns. Everyone. And this is just one of those factions. There are hundreds, maybe thousands. You are a fool if you think that you are any better, any more skilled, than any single one of these corpses, because there comes a point where strategy fails. You –"

She jabbed her finger into his chest.

"Are Order. _They_ – "

She opened her hand in an arc, skimming the broken line of the whole horizon.

"Are chaos. And I know, by the very definition of you – by shadowing you even for just a few short months, that _you do not understand chaos_, and you _know_ this; and yet you are attracted to this force, this calling, as a man cannot look away from a beautiful woman. It _attracts_ you, it _delights_ you – but it is not a part of you, and that it fascinates you, but you are still so far away. Your methods are effective, creative, strategically elegant – but tragically flawed. Whether you know it or not, you are fighting with conventional tactics against an unconventional enemy. You have subtlety, but lack improvisation; you possess foresight but not insight. I can help you. The only way to win against chaos, is to become chaos. Turian, rank and file is in your blood; you know nothing of guerrilla warfare."

His blood absolutely boiling, each word left his mouth like metal.

"I…am…_not _like _them._"

"But you are," she retorted, seeking his gaze, nearing him, "It is your nature, and you can not break from it, no matter how hard you try. You cannot do this alone. There are things you just don't know. Angles you just don't see. You understand the _inanimate_ – the wind, the buildings and vantages, algorithms and machines, but you do not understand _people_. It is plain to see. And that, that is where I come in. You need _me_."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing, the searching look in her eyes, the passion in her voice.

"I know enough." He said in quiet criticism.

She opened her palms to the sky; oh, was she was a master of theatrics.

"_Look at me._ I am standing right before you – I am living proof of the limitations of your abilities."

"I can't. I can't take a partner…"

She interjected calmly, raising a slender finger to the sky.

"Not a partner. _A team._ I do not work alone; that would make me a hypocrite, wouldn't it?"

He stared at her incredulously. Something about their conversation stood at the forefront of his memory. It bothered him, he was reminded of something important, but he could not remember it

"I don't even know you."

"And I don't know you. And frankly, I don't care to. All I care about, all I want, is to kill that _fucking _krogan."

"…Garm."

"_Yes._ I will never stop until the last drop of that son of a bitch's life-blood dries upon the pavement beneath my heel. Until that day occurs, I am bound to this rock. To this..." she cast her gaze away, to a distant grave.

He didn't know, it but inside lay her sister.

"Hell."

He stared at her, the femme fatale, the mystery, who looked so far away at the limitless horizon. He formed the words slowly, pitying himself even as his mandible moved. He realized something very important in that moment.

He was a fool for powerful women.

"I know where to find him, about twelve days out of the month." spoke the turian softly to the ground.

"I know. You lead me right to him."

"So why haven't you taken him out yourself?"

"Because I don't trust it. Something isn't right. And, there's only me. My partner is more dangerous behind a screen than he is with any weapon, and that is saying something. I may be a squadron of one, but for Garm, I think I need an army."

"It can be done."

"I know. But I will not risk it. Not yet."

"You work off of instinct and emotion. Now that, is what I would call a mistake, since you've made a habit of nicely airing out all of mine."

"With what I have seen, the years I have lived, I do not question it anymore."

"I believed that once."

"And _that_ is what will blind you in the end."

"I disagree."

She looked at him seriously.

"I want you to explain to me how the decision to leave whatever life you had before this, probably on a whim, to become a vigilante saboteur against the three largest crime syndicates in this kingdom of sin – was not a decision based on emotion."

The paper burned against his skin, a mirror of the look in his eyes as he bore into her through the damp darkness of the gravestones, shining dimly behind their dead and withered flowers. He chose his words carefully.

"Not emotion. Logic. There was literally nothing else I could do. The system I believed in, trained in, had broken." He stared through the graves, the forest of pillars of all those who had fallen before him. "What good is a gear in a clock that lies about the time?"

"The short answer is... nothing. It's no good at all. But its still a gear, and gears are meant to be part of something greater than themselves."

Slowly, he stole his eyes toward her. She was staring at one grave, eyes fixed far across the plane, at a number with no name. He watched her, seeing something slide just behind her face, like a fish swimming in deep water, barely an outline.

"And that's why you came here. That's why I came here. That's why we all come here. Because everyone's a target and this is the land of guilt and felony."

He watched her lips move.

"_Criminals aren't hard to find, Archangel. You need only to point your gun and shoot."_

The sentence would burn itself into his mind forever.

"-And so, you can shoot all you want, and every shot will be justified. Ever here shall your actions be rationalized. Welcome to Omega, Archangel. Land of opportunity."

"So if you've got it all figured out, why do you need me? I'm just a turian and a rifle."

"…I have never seen anyone..._anyone..._ take down so much, in such a short amount of time. Just as you cannot escape your nature as a turian, I cannot escape mine as asari." said the black widow bitterly, crossing her lean arms, shifting her weight on one sure, stiletto'd foot.

"I have a long view. It causes me to hesitate. To consider too much. I need your decisive mind. Your…" she looked at him through the darkness, the deathly light striking her eyes behind their vampish net. He watched her black lips form the word precisely.

"_Discipline._ We each have what the other needs. Together, we will be more powerful than we will ever be apart."

He looked to the graves, considering her words. She set her gaze upon them as well, and continued, treading carefully but with absolute conviction.

"I need you. I can listen, I can infiltrate, I can disappear, but I am lost on strategy, on the next steps."

_I need you._

Their eyes met, she continued passionately, her thoughts unbroken by the look that struck across his face.

"Vision. I need your vision. I am blind to the permutations that comprise the future."

He looked into her depths, trying to read the extraterrestrial thoughts moving behind her distant eyes.

Déjà vu overwhelmed him in a crashing wave as he watched her turn those unfeeling lenses away from him, setting them far off in the universe, past the lawless wasteland he had dreamed he'd come to find.

She spoke in tones of finality in her deep, familiar voice.

"You come now to a choice. I know you are planning on attacking Garm in his brothel, to use the element of surprise. You can try it alone, and fail, as you suspect you will –"

_How could she see so much?_

"- or, you can meet me in this exact spot in three days, and I will take you underground. I have a place concealed by time, which has always been on my side. Together, we will pull our resources and go from there."

"And what happens if I say no?"

She smiled a touch darkly, and cast her glassy glance on him once again, tilting her head with a breed of sarcasm refined by centuries of experience. "Then you will never see me again. No more consultations, no more information. And I won't save you,"

She jutted her crested head to the graves spilled before them.

"-when you fuck up, because you will."

What he wanted to say, was that at least he would rather die having tried to pursue his intention rather than merely watch it age, but he held his tongue, looking at the skyline so far away, where the dirty orange and black skyline of Omega met the void of space.

Space.

Spaced.

His heart.

Burning.

Cold.

A paper folded near his breast, a fragile dream.

His eyes closed.

A smile, grey eyes, a steaming cup.

"…I need more time." said the turian, looking back into the distance, seeing something else in the red flying on the dawn's flaming wings. The asari gave the horizon a melancholy smile, as the two lone figures looked into the vast.

"Don't we all."

* * *

Three days passed as does sleep without a dream.

He stood, hooded, leaned against the gates of the cemetery as the acid rain erased the memories of the day, its scents. Its worldly filth. The colors of artificial dawn lit the dark horizon with a light that gave no warmth. A gleaming black car slowly trickled up to the curve, its suicide door sliding open with abandon.

Inside, woman dripping in black, a slitted dress and a bare thigh upon the accelerator. A gloved hand on a steering wheel.

A raised brow, a violet eye, a smile on gleaming onyx lips.

He slid in, the door closed.

"What is your name."

It wasn't a question.

"Mierin."

"Well Mierin," said Archangel as he looked out the acid washed window.

"I think this is the start of a very interesting friendship. But there's only one rule."

"And what's that?"

He cast his eye on her, and she met it.

"I'm driving."


	17. Doppleganger

Chapter 16: Doppelganger

One year and eight months later.

The portal to the dim outside shut as he slipped into the rouge shadow of the underground hold which clasped his solemn team of twelve. They watched as their master joined them without a word, the vaguely chemical scent of the night air still clinging to his clothes. Their eyes floated in the darkness in strange and glinting shapes, welcoming him as he entered their home carved deep in beneath the abandoned apartment. They watched him, all sights on the quiet turian who had come to bind them all together. Through space, beyond their differences, beneath a single unified motive.

Vengeance.

A voice, low and batarian, cleaved the muted hush.

"Cut your vid, boss. You're just a ghost and memory."

"Good. Status."

He had grown accustomed to a way of asking questions without actually asking; a peculiar finality that stung but did not insult.

"Live feed uploaded from your position. Magnified audio signature clean and stripped of noise. We got it."

The hacker worked fast, wired on batarian caffeine, as Archangel stood beside him, waiting. A few others crept around, having watched the events of his night at Afterlife unfold like ballet on the screens that lit their hidden vault. Ripper, the salarian explosives expert who had signed on as one of the first and most ardent of their crew; smiled, baring his sharp, jagged little teeth as he looked over to the noiseless form besides him.

"Execution admirable. Spectre training not lost on you, turian."

Archangel's sight pierced the pale synthetic light as he leaned over Vortash's shoulder, calculating. His eyes moved over the dozen screens that shone white arcs into his eyes.

"Adding those audio amplifiers to my visor was clever. You know I don't just let anyone take a microtool to my baby."

"I'm not just anyone. Your "baby" was in good hands. And I don't make mistakes. You know that."

They examined the magnified image of Aria T'Loak's now undisclosed face, captured in perpetual shock as she looked over her empty shoulder, her eyes tense and her lips parted in interrupted seduction.

"What do you want to do with this, eh...rather interesting revelation?" pressed Vortash in uncertain tones, turning his hardened gaze over to the dark turian, who was still staring in quiet satisfaction at the images cast in liquid crystal.

"Nothing. Not our concern yet. We have to stay on task."

"Good call." Came a quiet voice from the shadows to his right. From the darkness stepped a long leg. Into the pool of light emerged Mierin. Her precisely drawn lips glistened beneath her eyes.

"You know how it is," She said softly, his eyes sliding away from hers as she slowly took her place beside him. "Better not to get mixed up with us _azures_. I hope you weren't talking about me when you said the last time you asked an asari for something it didn't end well."

She turned to him with a smirk, trying to cajole a response. He merely looked on, as he spoke – his words lifeless.

"No. A _different_ femme fatale."

Her smile faded as her eyes fell.

His voice. It was so hollow.

But only, she had noticed, with her.

They had grown close and would have grown closer, if it weren't for the splinter that had grown between them. The prickle that had been bothering her, the red flag, the unshakeable, immovable feeling in her gut that felt like discomfort bred with anxiety. Something between them was wrong, something had slowly and yet surely asphyxiated their dynamic.

Something. Someone.

She listened as the conversation went on without her.

"Just can't believe her grid was so easy to knock out. Getting your signal through - rudimentary."

"And to think you can just make it all look like a pacemaker signature."

"Hardly necessary," replied Vortash to the turian, ignoring her as she stared down at the floor, "But I like knowing that I still got it sometimes."

The batarian's many eyes glinted as his rough hands ran over his keys and panels, practiced so much that the information ceased to be data but music. Archangel quietly watched the batarian's thick yellow nails pluck and play the computers like an instrument. His multiplied gaze was unblinking. It was all a game to him.

A second plated face emerged from the dark into the chiaroscuro. The crowd patiently waited as Vortash deconstructed the hundreds of conversations that Archangel had filtered from Afterlife, spilling their contents through the fine sieves of his programs.

The glassy articulations of Lantar Sidonis's visage turned the artificial light like a blade in the dark.

His deep voice cleaved the silence as he stepped in the space between Archangel and Mierin, gently edging her to the side.

"Mierin may be the best _spy_, but you should have sent me. I'm getting tired of waiting around for this blood to spill. Careful, Arc, this place is starting to feel like C-Sec."

Archangel smiled as the second turian met his eye, nearly the reflection of his own; so similar were they that the two were almost impossible to tell apart in the dark. Sidonis shifted his weight to one side as he stood beside his leader in the deep shadow, their nearly identical hard lined bodies a black eclipse before the glowing screens of Vortash's orchestra of analytics.

Ever since Lantar had entered the crew, the first of a stream of ex C-Sec personnel that comprised their newly formed shock troop, a running joke had emerged amongst the team that part of their success lay in that they had a back up Archangel in case the first one failed. Sidonis's raucous black humor and zealous aggression for the cause juxtaposed against Archangel's methodical nature that had earned Lantar the sarcastic nickname of "evil twin". So close in appearance were the two turians that they could have been brothers; a sentiment that was not lost on Archangel.

The lone female amongst the group of men near the terminal gave a silent breath before she slowly filtered away. The feeling finally sunk into her. Their little group had become a club that she no longer belonged to.

"You're good Sid, but you just don't have my flair. Besides, I needed to stretch my legs a little."

Vortash snorted, bringing up the video logs of six separate private security mechs in a live feed, splashing them over half of his screens. Ripper piped up in his jeering voice from behind them.

"Sid, hah. Typical C-Sec - can't hold his ethanol. No need to take him seriously, Archangel, would have compromised objective. No patience for clandestine operations." He clicked through a snicker, and Sidonis playfully nudged the skinny salarian with his knuckle and they laughed.

"Do again and pull back nub, turian. Ex-salarian special forces. Have eyes on back of head."

"Yeah, we know, _"miss nothing – am salarian"_ mocked the larger turian in a nasal tone and they snickered further, observing Vortash's hands run down the keys, making their cold mechanical sounds.

Arms crossed, he listened. His mouth was turned in still in somewhat pleasant smirk as he crew dicked around while waiting for the kernel they had been hunting for weeks. He cast his metallic gaze to the floor while memories flooded before his eyes as the last glimpse of Mierin disappeared into the hall without him taking any notice.

Archangel stared at the cracks and seams; at the dark places that lay in between the tiles on the floor that wasn't his, the floor that bounced the words and laughter of the crew slowly built over nearly two years, he knew.

The man named Garrus did not live there.

Or anywhere.

Anymore.

* * *

She walked down the long corridor, still echoing with the voices of the crew and Vortash's guttural shouting.

The crew.

Their crew.

The crew they had built. Together.

In the first few months they had been inseparable. He moved in, taking his place so naturally beside her and Vortash in their bunker across the bridge. Methodically they moved his great cache of weapons into the deep labyrinth beneath the apartment, an ancient garage, cold and quiet with its sealed off doors. Deep in the dark beneath the surface. In just one week it felt as if he had always been there. Of course, this wasn't a great stretch of the imagination considering his habits, she thought to herself.

She kept her bedroom at the top of the stairs while he preferred to lay beneath the ground, at least, so he said. Although his movements were quiet beyond all belief, she quickly learned that he never seemed to sleep.

Laying in her bed she would hear him floating through her halls like a phantom. At first she tried to ignore the footsteps she would hear haunting the floor beneath her. Eventually, she began to leave offerings for the spirit. First periodicals and things she would pick up along her journeys, to keep that sharp intellect busy. Then, much later, tea – to calm the restless ghost as their work became dirtier by the week. A different leaf each week, which she would replace after finding the receptacle empty, consumed in quiet in the middle of the night by the thing that lived inside her basement.

Realizing the limitations of their numbers, they began to cast a few feelers to old associates and a short list of interested acquaintances, and they held their breaths as their number surely swelled to six. Weaver, the only human, an ex-Alliance infiltrator turned trauma surgeon; disenfranchised with the flow of illicit organs carted off the black markets of Earth from the bodies of the poor to the coffers of the Blood Pack. Ripper, the wiry, genius salarian; thirty years as an explosives expert in the Salarian Special Tasks Group had reduced him to a code name and a reputation for violence, his motivation largely from boredom, and partially from spite. Melanis the enforcer, the only female drell Archangel had ever seen; an old frenemy of Mierin, who was still missing an eye from the blow she took trying to defend her hanar master from an Eclipse mercenary. She had failed.

It was then, when the ranks of each illegal faction began to mysteriously thin, and entire smuggling ships began to crash and explode of their own accord, that the bosses of the syndicates began to suspect that something wicked was stalking those thick Omega nights. The quiet team of vigilante saboteurs grew emboldened by each success as one by one, the fingers began to fall from the three black hands of Omega.

In the day they assassinated and subverted, they disrupted and misinformed; each crashing body, each blazed warehouse, each coercion, each subjugation a smooth balm to long chapped wounds. But for the turian and the asari, each evening was a curse. A silent nightly conflict that came in mockery of rest. The necromancy that bound them both to the ruined asteroid and to each other tore their old scars fresh each night, unable to escape, as their eyes would open from dreams half remembered and half repressed.

After their muscles were tired and aching from the blood they had shed; side by side, spotter and sniper, partners and conspirators – she began to visit that lonely ghost she came to call her equal. They had a deal, an understanding; he would teach her marksmanship and strategy, if she traded certain secrets of her craft. They grew close despite their lack of words, sharing long silences in the field where they taught each other all they knew.

And so later, after certain barriers parted, she would find him sometimes when she was too afraid to have those dreams in those disconsolant evenings when she would lay atop her pillow, eyes wide open until late became early. Eventually she began to descend the staircase that separated them. Night after night she went down, deep below, to where she always found him sitting in the dark, and she came to sit beside him, nothing as she sat. Months passed; and although they never spoke, they learned they didn't have to. They simply shared a silence that would resound for hours as the two figures looked to the darkened nothing, seeing things that were not there.

Faces that wanted so desperately to see that they manifested themselves in places they did not belong. In the features of strangers they had never glimpsed, the corners of dark rooms filtered through starving eyes, the folds of paper, the tableau of a passing crowd, the obscure currents of the seas of dreams.

They shared this. The wordless conversations understood only by those who each possessed only half a soul.

"Do you ever dream of her?" She whispered once, her far off stare fixed past the plane that bound them to the living.

He did not reply.

They ate together. They planned together, always - when not discussing business - in absolute silence. It didn't bother her. She did not feel entitled to his friendship; to have a companion was enough, if that is truly what it could be called. In time, she began to suspect that she was filling something, a need perhaps; a hole. As those long quiet nights drew on her instincts began to whisper that he kept the lights off to imagine her as someone else.

She caught him once, his blank stare punctured, just and only one time, as she glimpsed him early on a sunless morning, her eyes burning from the night before. Water clung to her from a joyless shower as she milled about the kitchen in her black silk robe, bought on Thessia, years ago.

From the far wall, she saw him staring as if there was nothing else in existence to see. Out of the corner of her eye watched him stare at her hand as she stirred powdered cream into a cup of coffee.

His were not words for what pierced through them.

But when turned to meet his gaze, he bolted. How he tore that look away from her. A scrape of a chair, pounding boots, and he left the room in a burst, legs moving fast, fringe tucked down, nearly running. Her eyes would stay fixed on that empty door until the cup in her hand lost its steam.

It was then that her heart began to sear.

_"Stop thinking about him."_

Mierin halted in her tracks as the world snapped back through the mass relay of her memory. She turned. Immersed in the shadows to her left burned the soft ember of a cigarette, perched in the full lips of a sinuous drell with one watchful obsidian eye.

Her gaze pierced her, glistening with fire.

"What?" snapped Mierin, her face contorting defensively.

"You're thinking about him again. Stop it." said the drell, exhaling the smoke in a haze around her smooth face, the timber of her low rolling voice like silk over gravel.

The asari looked at her, her old rival, bitterly.

"You are gravely misinformed, _Melanis_." Barked Mierin, as the other woman nonchalantly offered her a fresh cigarette, unphased. The asari stared at her, trying to remain angry, but at last she snorted dismissively and snatched the cigarette, placing it into her anxious lips. Melanis unfolded her omniblade with a graceful movement and lit it for her on its blistering edge.

The asari inhaled, closed her eyes, and sank to the wall next to her. The drell's lips turned into a small satisfied smile as she watched her smoke.

She had quit years ago.

"How did you know?" asked Mierin quietly, exhaling.

The drell eyed her sharp, beautiful profile and took a drag.

"You used to look at me that way."

Mierin smirked sadly, flicking her ash.

"That was a long time ago."

Melanis shrugged casually, shifting her weight.

"You know we never forget." She raised a finger to the temple beside her patched eye and tapped it with a dark smile. "Perfect memory."

Mierin's eyes closed in pain, her features closing in distress as the hand that held her cigarette fell to her side. She let the calming, biting vapors filter through lungs, seized with profound guilt. She raised her hand and looked at the smoldering ember with anger, unable to meet Melanis's eye.

Her voice cracked with emotion.

"Why do you still smoke these? You know they're going to kill you."

The drell laughed. The asari winced at the phlegm that struck sharp and deep from within her chest.

"Old habits die hard."

"Stop it. You know as well as I do your lungs-"

But Melanis was still laughing. She choked, and cleared her throat forcefully, raising her fist up to her mouth. She pressed on, paying no attention.

"You sound just like Weaver."

"He's right. You need to quit."

But she just kept smiling, content, in spite of everything.

"My sweet immortal Mierin. How obsessed you are with death-"

She coughed again, still laughing, covering her mouth once more as she cleared her throat dutifully.

"- and deathwishes."

Their eyes met. After a burning moment, Mierin tore her glance down to the ground, as the drell's eye stared on unwaveringly.

She spoke very softly, her lips barely moving.

"You could always see right through me."

Melanis nodded as she flicked her spent cigarette on the ground and immediately lit another.

"It's easy, when you know someone. Now," She lit the smoke in her lips, her lean face glowing warmly for just a moment, "Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind?"

Mierin shook her head, not even knowing where to start. Unsure of what to say, of how to even begin, she flicked her cigarette on the cold floor and crushed it beneath her booted toe. The patient drell waited.

But she already knew the answer.

"It's Sid, isn't it?"

The asari looked at her incredulously.

"_Damn you._ Can I have no secrets!?"

Melanis smiled again, and shook her head knowingly. "No."

Mierin let out a long sigh, closing her weary eyes. Melanis raised the scaled brow above her patched eye more than just a little curiously.

"Are you jealous?"

"No." Said the other defiantly, and from her tone the enforcer could hear her conviction.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, dammit. I wish it was just that. But…"

"But?"

She sighed again, those violet eyes closing forcefully as she crossed her arms tight and tucked her head low.

"…There's something not right with him."

"Not right?"

"Yes. Off."

The drell's scaled brow furrowed, her good eye searching the asari's fine face, seeing deep discontent weaved into her features.

She was serious. Mierin continued.

"I don't know what it is about him. But there's something peculiar. Something I can't quite place."

The drell looked away, staring into the opposite wall, looking for an answer to qualm the discomfort.

"…He's never given us a reason not to trust him."

"I know. And it bothers me."

The drell's eye rolled back over to her. She stared hard into the floor, gazing into eternity.

"…He's too perfect."

"Well," shrugged the drell, flicking the second devoured cigarette to its place beside the first, "He's very likeable. Archangel seems to love him."

"Yes," spat Mierin, her voice enflaming, "There's that as well."

"You _are_ jealous."

"No. I'm not. Can't I just _not like_ someone?"

"I suppose I don't follow your logic."

"Well, that's because their isn't really any."

Their eyes met.

"It's a feeling."

Pressing silence.

"Archangel and Sid are fairly similar. You should have seen this coming. Men can be clannish. Especially turians." Shrugged the drell, yet she turned the thoughts over in her mind with great care, examining the intent behind Mierin's words.

She was seldom wrong about people.

"No. No they are not."

"Well, perhaps I misspoke. More accurately," Clarified the drell as she sucked the last bit of life out of her third cigarette and looked at it, turning in her lean verdant fingers, "They are similar in that Sidonis is…I don't know, perhaps something Archangel wishes he was."

Mierin's eyes cut through the dark. "Elaborate."

"Consider. What do we know about Archangel? He's quiet. He's methodical. His jokes are terrible, and thankfully, rare."

They snickered. Melanis choked on another cough, cutting the moment short. Clearing her throat and avoiding Mierin's sad eyes, she continued calmly,

"Now consider Sidonis. He's confident. He's bold. And he's very charming. You know why here's here, right?"

"No. I never asked."

"It's a fairly comical anecdote. Apparently, he turned to mercing after he got fired from C-Sec for striking his superior in an argument."

"…Really…" said Mierin, the gears of her mind, sharpened for psychoanalysis, whirring to life.

"Now," said the drell, slinking her black eye to the asari with a smile, "If that doesn't appeal to Archangel's alpha male fantasy, well…there's a reason I stay away from men."

Mierin's face lit into a smile, yet it was still tweaked with discontent. "So…you think he sees himself in Sidonis."

Melanis considered, bobbing her head side to side, her raspy voice replying, "Perhaps he wants to see himself in Sidonis. Maybe Lantar is someone Arc wishes he was, or could be. At least…"

She exhaled.

"That's what I think."

"Well," said Meirin tenderly, watching her. "As I recall, you see a lot. For having one eye."

Melanis's clever lips turned into a small smirk, and she inched a hair closer to the asari.

"What doesn't kill one, only makes one stronger."

The asari smirked, her eyes falling on the drell's familiar lips. "No...just older."

The drell nodded knowingly, still smiling in her small, soft way, and asked, "So what are you going to do?"

Futility cast a shadow over Mierin's ageless face. She bowed her elegant head, ruining the courtly curve of her long neck.

"I'm going to talk to him. I have to. This feeling…it's too strong."

"You're nervous."

Violet eyes stayed fast against the unlit floor.

"I don't think he'll listen to me."

A bristly laugh.

"Who wouldn't listen to you?"

"Because…Because I think he hates…"

The drell's expression fell.

"…that I'm not someone else."

Mierin stared hard into the distance, and shook her head with heavy sorrow as the crushing weight of truth fell upon her shoulders.

"Then forget him."

"What?"

They looked at each other. She watched those lips move with force and clarity.

"_Forget him."_

Mierin stared, but Melanis did not flinch her unyielding gaze. She repeated, again. "_Forget. Him._I don't believe he's the turian you think he is, and if he ever was, well. That person may be gone now."

Silence.

"…Look, I've got to go."

She went to turn away, but a webbed hand clasped around her azure wrist. She looked up to her, lips parting as a penetrating gaze incised her, magnified somehow, by only shining from that one intense eye.

"Get some sleep tonight. I know how you can get."

The asari's features softened with her heart. Everything between them aside, seeing her again, made her realize how sorely she had missed her.

"I'll be fine."

"Mmm."

"No. Really. I just need to take care of this."

"If you desire."

She went to turn away again, but Melanis couldn't help herself.

"Mierin-"

She turned.

The moment lingered tensely.

The drell spoke softly, with unhidden longing.

"Don't be a stranger."

The words melted the ice that had long since collected on Mierin's abandoned heart. Melanis threw down her cigarette without looking at it as deep pain glimmered across her eye.

"…I'm glad we met again…I just wish...I would have been more careful…"

The asari's eyes closed in pity as she continued, her voice so low, bring her back through the years that had evaporated from them like a river that had gone dry.

"…So that maybe, I would now have more time…"

Mierin shook her head, the tear bleeding out.

"…You drell and your guilt trips. That eye of yours, always on the clock…"

Melanis smiled sadly. "You asari...so used to wealth…but your greatest treasure…"

Their eyes met.

"…you squander."

Mierin looked away, and then looked back.

She exhaled.

"Let me do this, and be done with it. For good."

Melanis nodded, her eye glistening. "Amonkira has always smiled on you. But for this…"

But she never got to finish that sentence, for her lips fell interrupted.

She kissed her.

Mierin pulled away, and they looked at each other, shaking, in the darkness.

Melanis, for once, had no words. Mierin pressed her lips softly to the dark cloth placed over the hollow that once held her other eye, and pulled her old friend into her, and there she held her, and wished that she had never let her go the first time.

Blue lips to a green ear, and an epiphany.

"Tomorrow…We start over…You're right…You're always right…Life…It's too short…to live with so much death…And I…"

The tears on her lashes swiped cold across the drell's shivering cheek, so close they were nearly one.

"…I can't live in someone else's grave…"

"Then…"

Their lips so close they touched as they spoke,

"…I will wait with a shovel…"

They joined.

* * *

The water was cold on Mierin's hot face.

She looked into the mirror.

Her eyes were still black from the hallucinogens endemic to drell saliva. She blinked, but her pupils refused to submit.

_Damn drell._

She smiled.

_Well, this might take the edge off it anyway. What a strange color…No._

_Concentrate._

Her sister looked back at her through the glass, rolling her eyes at her.

She shook her head.

Gone.

_Fuck. Don't look in the mirror. Walk away. Walk away._

_Away. _

_Aw…ay…_

The hallway, she was standing in the hallway.

Walking.

_Why is it so dark here? Why do we never turn the lights on?_

Ripper passed her.

_Salarians are weird…I wonder why they have crests…_

Stairs.

_Why are these so steep? Goddess, are there no fucking lights in this house?_

Her foot hit the landing. Already at the bottom. But how? She stared at it for a moment. She blinked.

_What am I doing? Oh. Right. Come on, let's go. Time to meet the mystery man._

An open door. The frame glimmering like bones.

The blackness inside.

Just a rectangle.

Staring back at her.

It disturbed her.

She stood rooted to the spot.

…_I'm not afraid of the dark…I'm not afraid of the dark…_

One foot moved. The other followed.

_No monsters in the closet…No monsters in the closet…_

Step.

Step.

Step.

Her hands reached out before her, feeling the pitchy air.

The rear of a chair. His chair. She swiped her hand across its back.

She heard someone turn.

She blinked.

She blinked again.

The outline of a turian fringe.

"Oh good. I was looking for you."

He said nothing.

Her muscle memory took over. She found her way to the chair beside his, and sat.

Silence.

Her head in her hands, but she was too numb to feel.

She breathed.

"Arc…We need to talk."

She looked up. He was looking her way, outlined by the faint red glow of the hall, but his face was black.

She sighed.

"We need to talk about this Lantar situation."

The silhouette leaned back.

She ran a hand over her intoxicated crest, the smallest pangs of anxiety rising in her chest again.

"…I'm worried about tomorrow. I'm worried…about us. And I'm worried…That perhaps you are not seeing things as they are…I know you like this person…and he's very good, I'll admit…But…I don't know if I'm comfortable with your decisions lately…You've been giving him so much…responsibility…Not that I'm envious…Its just that…I know he's…was…C-Sec and all, but, Arc, he really just joined. I'm just…I'm just trying to say that I think you should be careful with who you pick to be your prodigy…Because…"

_"Because you never really know people."_

Her heart froze.

Pounding.

"Who are you?"

She could feel him smiling.

_"We've met before."_

Shaking. She was shaking.

_"Haven't we?"_

"…No…What?"

_"At your house."_

She stared. She stared at the outline of a figure with no face.

No face at all.

The soft laughter of a voice that was not Archangel's.

_"We met at your house. Don't you recall? I'm there. Right now."_

"WHO ARE YOU!"

_"You know who I am."_

She stood up, suddenly, still mercilessly blind, tears of sheer terror flowing from her affected eyes as she backed away towards the door.

_"It's been a pleasure talking to you."_

The asari bolted into the light.

Her mother was wrong.

There really were monsters in the dark.

* * *

He was bent over the summaries of the next morning's attack, their most ambitious yet; a three pronged assault on a massive arms shipment incoming to restock the dwindling reserves of the three faction's frontline infantry – now confirmed to have merged in a desperate attempt to band together against the onslaught of Archangel and his demons.

They were so close.

The turian nearly jumped a foot as an asari came barreling into him out of nowhere, her eyes wide and black.

"Spirit! What the – "

He looked at her suspiciously. Her pupils were massive.

"What the hell is wrong with your eyes?"

She blinked, her chest heaving, and neared him with quivering lips.

She dragged a single finger over the right side of his face.

Her eyes touched something that was not there.

Not yet.

He snatched her finger away, and she seemed to come to the present.

_"…Archangel?"_

"Yes?" he hissed, beginning to get an idea of what she had been up to. "Who else would it be?"

She was shaking, staring. He could not read the expression on her altered features. Growing more annoyed than uncomfortable now, he slipped off, giving her the dirtiest of looks.

"You know, most of us just stick to alcohol." He sneered condescendingly. She paid no attention.

"Arc, we need to talk," said she in shuddering tones, leveled only tenuously, "We need to talk about squad leaders – "

"Sid on shock, Weave on infiltration." he said robotically, returning to his work space.

Her eyes grew huge, "No. No! Not him. Not him!"

He looked at her incredulously, scowling.

"Who? What – "

"Where! Where will you be!"

He could hear the panic rising in her voice, he shook his head in disappointed shock. He smacked his finger to a map, pointing out his vantage, hidden in a building, about a mile off target.

She looked at him in unadulterated dread.

"No. Why there? Why…Why won't you be coming!"

His eyes fuming, he spoke to her very slowly, as if to a child.

"I'll be at a cover point a mile south of our point of entry. Someone's got to take down that gunship –"

The word echoed in her mind.

Gunship.

Gunship.

She interrupted, suffocating on the syllables – "Gunship? The one with the _rockets_?"

He looked at her in dismay. "_Yes Mierin, the one with the rockets."_

But she was just shaking her head, back and forth, overcome with emotion.

"Arc…Arc, listen to me, _I don't like this._"

He shrugged, completely missing her point.

"Why? I can hit it."

She took a step towards him.

"No. _No._ Someone should cover you – you're completely exposed, we talked about this – let me take the shot, you can spot, I'm good, I-"

He gave her a cold look.

"I can handle myself."

"That's not what I meant. You know me. Arc - whose idea was this?"

He stiffened, watching her features closely, as all the pieces fell together, and finally, after months of her hovering, it all made sense.

_Of course._

"Not your call," he said flatly, sidestepping her question, as he avoided her perilous gaze, "You're not ready. I'm the best shot. It has to be me."

She grabbed his arm, he turned in anger and spitefully ripped it away from her, turning from her grasp.

"This was _his _idea, wasn't it?"

He barreled around and stared, his mouth parting in incredulity.

"WASN'T IT! ?"

"_Have you lost your damn mind!"_

"NO! _It's not right! There's something not right! You have to listen to me!"_

She reached for him but he dodged, his eyes cutting into her wrathfully, sickened by hysterics. He rounded off on her as she stood shuddering before him, looking at him like a wounded animal, as he began to deconstruct his way out of having to actually deal with her intent, which he had no idea how to interpret.

"Fine," he shot acidly. "You want to play investigator? Fine. We'll play. You seem to have a problem with Sidonis. So._ Mierin._ What _evidence_ do you have?"

She stared at him, the expression wiping from her face.

"What."

"You heard me. We're a tight group. If you have a problem with one of us, fine. But I would like to know what evidence has brought you to this conclusion."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes wide.

"What are you saying…Don't you trust me? Don't you trust my judgment?"

He merely looked at her, without a trace of doubt, and said nothing.

Her heart. How it was breaking.

"I don't believe it…I don't believe it…After all this, after everything we've been through…_You don't trust me…"_

Like so many times before, he simply said nothing. And then, he slowly, carefully spoke.

"Without evidence you're argument is invalid. I can't take just your word alone. You are completely driven by your emotions. The universe doesn't run on allegations and baseless speculation. We have so much on the line now. I can't go turning that on its head, _now of all the nights you could have spoken with me,_ on a damn whim."

She stared, her lips parting as his words struck her ears like bombs, and deafened her.

"Who…_who are you?_"

He snorted in disgust. "You know who I am."

But she shook her head slowly, unblinking, from side to side. Seeing him, in the bitter truth.

"No. No I don't…"

They stared at each other, her voice dropping to a low whisper.

"I never did."

He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his frill. "I'm sorry Mierin, but I can't help you. Sidonis was C-Sec, I have no reason not to tr-"

"_I DON'T CARE _IF HE WAS C-SEC!"

"_CONTROL YOURSELF!"_

Glowing blue with biotics, she slammed a table to the floor. He ducked, looking at her in horrific shock, as she blazed in a fury, screaming –

"WAKE UP! CAN'T YOU SEE?"

He stepped to her, rounding his face down to hers, insulted beyond being able to raise his voice past a frigid whisper.

"See _what?_"

Mierin looked from one of his eyes to the other. He noticed that hers were now perfectly clear, and burning as he had never seen them burn before.

"You…" She whispered with lips shuddering in spite, "- are blind. You -"

She jabbed her finger into his chest, again, like she had so long ago. When she had seen through him, the first expression changed into something that so furious it cut all thought from his mind.

"_You have become what you hate."_

The insult ran so deep it nearly pushed him where he stood.

"_Get. Out."_

"_Fine."_

Mierin stormed towards the door, stepping over the utterly destroyed table, his eyes slicing into her spine as she stalked out of the room, but at the last moment, she turned to face him once again.

He watched her lips curl back, as she placed him in the cross hairs of those uncanny eyes and pulled the trigger.

"_And Archangel."_

Wrathfully, he leered at her, so infuriated he was vibrating.

"_Be sure to put some flowers on Garrus's grave for me."_

Her eyes narrowed into blades honed sharp from betrayal.

"_It's a shame I never knew him."_

The door slammed shut.

Again.

* * *

Author's Note:

The conversation between Sidonis and Mierin is a direct allusion to a scene in David Lynch's _Lost Highway._ Some lines are nearly verbatim; it is not my desire to plagiarize this work. Rather, I am attempting to pay homage to what I believe to be the most terrifying and ominous sequence ever written on film. I adopted part of the dialogue for this scene, partly as a nod to what I believe to be a classical work of art, and all because I feel that I could not write something more disturbing or that fit the atmosphere I was trying to capture more than that scene. Let there be no confusion to any interested parties.

It's my favorite Lynch movie, all about alter egos...

To everyone, seriously, thank you for the support and critiques. I never thought that my weird little fantasies that I'd been having ever since I started playing would be received so well.

Thank you immensely for the kind comments on the team and the characterizations. It was very challenging putting realistic faces to those blank names. I kept in mind one of the game developer's comments that Omega was conceived to be the dark inverse to Citadel. I went off of this theme of polarization for every aspect of the story here, and it came to head with this chapter, where we see again a little peek of surrealism, and premonition.

Every important character here is a shadow of someone else, willing, or not. There are many dopplegangers in this chapter, if you look. (The interaction between Mierin and Melanis is my favorite. I could write a whole minific on them. I think everyone needs a self destructive chainsmoking one-eyed drell in their life. At least I do.) She's loosely based off of Thane, in a nod to the undercurrent of the inevitability of death which has been getting thicker with each chapter. Notice how I have Arc sleeping beneath the ground? How he wanders the house at night, unable to rest, eating the 'offerings' left out for him?

Even further, certain scenes of the chapter itself are the "evil twins" and the ghosts of certain scenes in previous. _Those quiet early mornings._ If you read carefully, the argument between Mierin and Archangel has lines that are..._ familiar. _Take a glance at _Citadel Noir_, then read the argument at the end here. Then lets take a moment to remember when later our favorite, sweet, gentle turian mentioned his trust in his instincts, and how he broke those precious rules and followed them, and where he is now.

Poor Garrus.

Do you think he knows he's lost his soul?

Sometimes its easier to be someone else than it is to be yourself.

I wonder where he learned that from...


	18. The Fragile

Chapter 18: The Fragile

Earth.

A cold day in October in the collapsed outskirts of New Quebec, near Montreal.

Children played. They ran and skipped around the cobbled together planks that comprised a peeling tree house, built into a dying maple aside a featureless building with hardly any windows. Two women drenched in black habits, faces unseen, stood side by side in the frame of a windowed door beneath a shambled awning, as the threat of oncoming rain began to scent the early evening air.

The shabby little jungle gym was crawling with young children; peeking out from portholes, chasing each other around the rusted chains, laughing, crying, sneezing, picking at themselves, pushing, shoving, and getting filthy, oblivious to the poverty around them.

All except for one.

"She's up there again." Said one nun to the other as they surveyed the children playing in the aftermath of an economy that had long since moved elsewhere. Her tired eye was fixed on the only child set apart from the others, the only one alone. Seated high above the others on the roof of the old tree house, her ill fitted jumper gathered around her skinny knees, a small girl with tangled red hair stared through the black leafless branches of a storm cloaked sky, trying her hardest to see the stars beyond it.

Turned away from them, she hadn't moved in hours.

"No games of "space-captain" today?"

"No…not in a while now. It's strange to see her this quiet. I don't think the therapy is going too well. She's getting more…withdrawn."

The other woman of the cloth deeply sighed as she cast her weight painfully down, and shifted her loafered feet uncomfortably.

"We have to do what we have to do to get her out of here. To give her a chance. She's been here for years...years and years and nothing..."

Her stern old eye glinted into her sister's softer lens, besieged with seriousness.

"_No one_ wants a child who wakes up screaming every night."

The younger nun's expression sank into solemnity, she shook her covered head with pity. She looked back over to the small hunched body with her jutting shoulder blades on the top of the slick roof; the little thing that refused to shiver against the cold, that refused to stop trying to peer past the swiftly approaching clouds, even though they were as opaque as milk.

She exhaled, and spoke quietly.

"Do you know what she asked me yesterday?"

"What?"

"She asked me if we could afford her treatments."

They stood quietly, the idea lingering, as they watched the strong wind part the child's long, uncut hair.

"I know…Catherine…we're putting _electricity_ into this little girl every night…and she's worried about the other children… Its… breaking my heart…Maybe…just maybe…these dreams, these things she's seeing…and the…and the _floating-"_

_"Stop it, someone will hear."_

_"You can't deny it – you've seen it too."_

"_Quiet._ The doctor said if we can just… jar her nerves enough, it will stop – that it worked with the other children, they're rare, but after just a little bit of damage - just a little bit – that…_thing_… will stop happening to her…and we won't have to explain it away any longer…"

"…What is going on with this world."

"I don't know. I don't know why this is happening. Everything changed since the war. Those damned aliens could messing with our kids…"

"I don't think it's the aliens…"

"Stop being soft."

"No, I'm not_. I hate them too._ It's just…It's just that my sister, my…blood sister over in Toronto, has a son…He…well, he has the same problem as Jane…They don't know what to do with him."

"Oh, that sweet little boy, he was here for Christmas... What was his name?"

"Kaidan."

"I bet they are just beside themselves."

"It's terrible. The poor little things…they can't control it. It's a curse…It just happens… Kaidan's attacks are far more severe and powerful than Jane's, and he doesn't have the night terrors, but it's awful just the same. I just wish little Jane would get taken already, so we didn't have to resort to…this._"_

"Stop it. We have to do this. It's for her own good."

"But…I keep thinking…what if it's all part of God's plan? Maybe it's a gift – St. Joan of Arc had visions, and she was a warrior of the Lord – who are we to – "

"_Be quiet, she'll hear._ If we don't stop this, this little girl is going die here. She's never going to get out, she'll never get a family. _Do you want that?"_

"But what if we're hurting her? Have you seen her drawings – she doesn't even draw real human people anymore, just ships and weird aliens. What if we're breaking her _faith__?_"

"_Marie._ I will take make believe friends in _any incarnation_ over those monsters she drew. I had to stop buying red pens…those eyes_…_I'd wake up screaming too if I saw those things in my sleep…"

"I know…It just…it just feels so wrong…like lobotomy in the twentieth century…"

"_It's not._ It's _nothing_ like that."

"But didn't the doctor say there would be memory loss?"

"…Slightly…The problem is…she's so stubborn…her mind that is, that they have to keep raising her dosage…so it's hard to gauge…but yes. If everything goes correctly, no more flying cutlery, at the expense of a few forgotten dreams…"

They watched as the little girl stood up slowly, looked dejectedly at her beaten shoes as the first raindrops began to fall, and fearlessly vaulted the ten feet straight down to the leaf strewn grass below, landing solidly. Having seen her do it about a thousand times before, they did not flinch. She did however set a terrible example for the other children, as they witnessed her attempt to encourage them to do the same, but she was the only one who did not fear injury. She would laugh when she scraped her knees which she often did, at least before, and walk herself to the nurse, determined to take care of herself all on her own.

"Our little warrior...Our Father did make her strong, didn't he?"

Tears shone in the younger nun's eyes. She turned them away and bit them back as the little girl with the windswept red hair came ambling in from the rain, her dark circled eyes seeking them with a weak smile.

"Indestructible."

* * *

Archangel's eyes opened from the dream that was in truth a memory that was never his.

Until now.

The weight. The terrible weight.

He closed his eyes again. He could still feel the rain misted on his face.

Liara had tried to warn him. Nothing could prepare him for the burden he carried, that he had asked for and received. The almost nightly visits of the dreams of a dead alien. Somebody he used to know, and would never know again. He did not regret the decision. Even though he had not truly slept in two years because of was the least he could give, just to see her. One more time.

He imaged her once more in his mind. So tiny. Lonely, in that cold northern province.

He would give anything.

Anything to walk into that memory, climb onto that tree house, and tell that little thing sitting alone against the sky that she would one day see her dream, and live it. That those clouds would part for her, and that the stars she dreamed of touching would welcome her into them. That she would leave that place she hated so dearly, the prison that robbed her of her gift; of her innocence.

He would give anything to hold her even as a child against that freezing wind. To tell her that she would be loved one day, by millions.

That she would unite entire worlds.

That she would slay monsters.

That she would grow up to be strong.

That she would be the person he respected more profoundly all else.

The only one who ever believed in him.

His guardian angel.

His muse.

Even for just that one moment.

That he would pin the thin sliver of time that they were together, as fragile as the paper she gave him, to his heart, deep in his chest, until the day it stopped beating. That he would ensure his death would be as selfless as hers. That he would take as much of the sickness, corruption, and evil of the universe down with him that he could. The universe didn't play fair.

And that's why he didn't either.

When he opened his eyes again as he sat in his chair where he had slept, still haunted by her face, he looked down at his omnitool and saw something that bothered him. He had an hour before he and his band of the furious scorned would descend upon their prey for their most elaborate and risky operation yet – but his house was eerily silent.

Keeping his heart calm, he left the blackened room, finding it odd that someone had closed the soundproofed basement door behind him. He walked carefully through the house, finding it completely empty. Even Vortash, his portable surveillance equipment gone as well as him.

But he was not scheduled to leave for this mission.

When he got to the armory, and saw the missing guns and gear, a trickle of cold terror iced into his gut. He opened his omnitool again, fingers searching for the communication frequencies of the crew – of Sidonis, but they were gone.

Gone.

He grabbed his assault rifle, his long rifle, and more heat sinks than he needed, before he tore out of the door, Mierin's face igniting in his mind.

How did she always know.

And why did he never listen.

* * *

Author's Note:

She shines  
In a world full of ugliness  
She matters

When everything is meaningless

Fragile  
She doesn't see her beauty  
She tries to get away  
Sometimes  
It's just that nothing seems worth saving  
I can't watch her slip away

She reads the minds of all the people as they pass her by  
Hoping someone can see  
If I could fix myself I'd...but it's too late for me

I wont let you fall apart

We'll find the perfect place to go where we can run and hide  
I'll build a wall and we can keep them on the other side  
...but they keep waiting  
...and picking...

It's something I have to do  
I was there, too  
Before everything else  
I was like you

- _The Fragile,_ Nine Inch Nails


	19. The Descent

Chapter 18: The Descent

He waited in the familiar dark.

Through the ledge of the open window he peered hard through his scope at the shipyard a little over a kilometer and a half north of his position. Anxiety, crawling and poisonous, was threatening the sure firing rhythm of his mechanical heart.

Why.

Why had they gone on without him? How could they possibly have thought that he had already left?

An hour and a half inched by. The events of the docks floated on with indifference. It was the same yard he had so coldly observed nearly two years ago at the first stage of his odyssey, so long before and yet so clear in memory. He had tried to call in to his team,_ his team_ – two words so fresh that they still felt awkward together on his tongue - over a dozen times, but every signal was shut off – blocked. The scenarios raced through his mind entirely against his will. He stifled them, but the obvious questions still tormented. Where were they? Why were their communicators cloaked? Something was off. Something was wrong. But he had no way, no way at all, of getting through to find out what.

They had vanished. Gone.

He justified it away as he sat waiting for the gunship. He told himself that something had changed at the last minute, that some new information had come through, and that Vortash had been forced to take them off all channels as to not compromise their position, and that somehow, he had simply not gotten the message.

He knew he was lying to himself.

He knew because the shock team should have become active ten minutes ago.

He gripped his rifle, as completely alone as he had been all those months ago when he had first begun to walk that long and crooked path. His obsession, his calling. Yet now, he felt infinitely more exposed than he ever did back then, in those nights spent splayed across roofs unseen. Where the hell was his crew? Had no one thought to check the basement for him? The whole thing felt like a bad nightmare, the kind he had experienced as a child, where he was forced to fight an invisible adversary with arms like lead and legs like stumps. His nerves screamed at him to pack up and leave, but his logic fastened him to his outlook. His mind was in decisive deadlock; he knew that something was terribly wrong, yet he could not suspend his habits enough to admit to what.

In being unable to identify the threat he was lost on how to decide on a method of exit. There was not a contingency plan sufficient to define exactly what the standard operating procedure was in the event of his entire team being wiped off the map.

All he could think of was Mierin; the disappointment on her face and the ire in her voice. She had known. She had known better than to make Sidonis CO, and yet he did not listen. Seeing through people and their actions, feeling the intent behind words which did not always speak the truth was her prime skill, her talent, and her specialty. It was her entire career to know people, to understand them and see past their social masks to anticipate their motives and actions; to make life and death judgment calls based on the subtlest of inclinations.

Why did he think he knew better than her?

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

He nearly went into cardiac arrest as the brooding, uneasy tension exploded with a calamity of sound.

His omnitool went rogue; a transmission blasting through on the emergency frequency at the highest alarm priority, he had never felt it scream so furiously before – he smashed his finger to the call switch.

"_ARC! ARC! CONFIRM"-static-"CONFIRM STATUS!"_

His eyes opened wide.

It was Melanis. He could barely recognize her over the ear freezing sound of static and gunfire.

"Copy Mel, confirm position!"

"_En route to extract you – FUCK! – I'm getting hit!"-BAM! BAM! BAM! –"_

"_MEL!"_

"_THERE'S NO TIME! GET TO THE ROOF! REPEAT, GET TO THE ROOF!"_

BAM!

The door behind him suddenly breached, blown asunder by explosives placed in absolute silence. Archangel whirled around. In a split second, he caught the vague outline of a massive krogan charging like a thresher maw. In one fluid movement the agile turian snatched his rifle, slipped left, extracted his Thunder VII, threw his arm, pulled the trigger and blasted enough micro-accelerated element zero though the back of his assailants knee to ground him like a brick.

Mercs from every faction he had ever seen (and a few he had never), swarmed through the door in a disorganized, angry frenzy – exploding the air with ear shattering gunfire. Archangel threw himself to the far side of the room and whipped a grenade at the stream of killers pouring through. It detonated - blasting - searing the air with percussion and heat as it toppled most of the group, but he saw still more – an ungodly number – ripping through the portal, trampling their dead as he ran for his life out of the far fire exit, bursting into the stairwell and smashing up the stairs three at a time.

"_ARC ARC GET TO THE ROOF! GET TO THE ROOF!"_

"_I'M A LITTLE BUSY, MEL!"_

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Charges detonated – screaming past his ears, showering him with shards of the building as he raced up the stairs towards the roof access. Ripping a grenade from its notch in his armor at his side, he tossed it down the steps, where he heard it funnel and clatter down below, blasting apart a river of approaching enemies tiding up in the long column like rainwater in a well.

He burst through the door – acid morning air, still raw from the rain. Running and running, ducking, dodging the charges burning past him, he looked and from high above descended Mierin's car, the gleaming black Murcielago luxury urban transport cruiser she loved more than everything else she owned - her most prized possession, which she let no one drive.

No one but him.

With wicked curves like its owner; it was a controlled, elegant vehicle of precision engineering that had been meticulously maintained for longer than he had been alive. It was one of the things he liked about her, that he never told her, for some reason, in all the months they had been close, all that time they had spent together. That few people really cherished their possessions enough to take care of them. Like his visor and his guns, she like him owned very little - but what she owned was of quality and treated with great respect. He remembered watching her, in those long nights they would spend in each others company, across the table where he would clean his rifle after getting back filthy and tired from the field. She would do the same, but she always saved her guns for last. He could still see her, the magnificently sophisticated asari, already reposed and in her silk robe, carefully cleaning her cosmetic brushes with their exotic handles and delicate alien bristles, or lovingly smoothing her wildly expensive shoes with sealant; a perfectionist like him, who took joy in the art and maintenance of her tools of the trade.

Their differences aside, he realized that he saw himself in her more than the other things that he so desperately wanted to see. Originally, he had thought that perhaps she was a woman like Her,but ultimately, he understood that it was only ever wishful thinking.

There was no one. No one, quite like Her.

He had recently, and now more intensely with the words spilled between them in the argument from the night previous, began to feel a deep shame for his treatment of the woman who had tried so hard to be his friend - only for him savagely ignore her and pretend that she was someone she was not.

He would pass his asari companion in the garage sometimes on his way in and out, seeing her service that beautiful car for no good reason, somehow, even couture as she detailed every angle and face of the performance machine. He could see how she poured her heart into it to cool off after missions – something he did himself with his rifles, only he didn't quite see the similarity until that moment, so far away from relevance. The things Mierin possessed had a certain quality; a striking gleam of timelessness, the elegant lacquer of objects well cared for and that represented something intimate, something secret. He long had wondered how many years she had wandered the asteroid trying to drown her sister's loss in blood. Long enough, he had figured, that she had nothing left but those objects; each one like a person to her, a sad effigy, bought slowly and treasured over her many years, each a momento and souvenir from a hidden time in her life.

And as he ran towards that ruined car with the charges blazing all around him, he regretted so much. He should have stopped in that garage, and told her, how he used to do the same thing to the Mako; how he used to like sneaking down to put extra work into it, for the sheer enjoyment of its mechanisms, long after all necessary repairs had already been made.

He should have told her about his time aboard a ship that had changed his life. Named after a beach in a planet he had never seen, in a battle he knew nothing about, it had been the sweetest home he could recall in all the years since the solace of his own had dissolved. In just one year, he had collected and written in the tablet of his memory a thousand stories. He could have made her smile, they could have laughed about it, and maybe something nice would have happened. Maybe her hard shell would have lessened seeing the fissure purposefully shown in his, maybe she would have told him the story behind those shoes with the red soles, those brushes with their sateen fur, the black lipstick and the shining car.

But he never did.

Mierin's ruined legacy whipped down out of the sky, its gashed and bullet strewn door swung open for him in a mockery of the allure he glimpsed the first time he had seen it in that rainstorm beside the cemetery.

"Get. In."

But he was already flying, polymeric glass exploding all around him, charges screaming past his head and dangerously near to hers. He landed in Melanis's lap, soaked through with blood, feeling her floor the accelerator and snap up the throttle so sharply that it was a miracle they didn't stall. The G's pushed Archangel down, down as she rocketed them upwards towards the smog smeared sky, she reached maximum altitude and turned a hard left, sending him flying across the tiny cabin with momentum – somehow, the resistive gravity had been shot out, and they were still in the air.

The turian grasped the slick leather roll handle above him – one of the only pieces of the vehicle still clinging to its former glory, and whipped his head to see the drell woman in the driver's seat, her smooth face sharply focused in concentration; her left hand commanding the steering counsel, her right flying over the emergency diagnostics. He could see she had been shot, in the gut, and was slowly and surely bleeding in her seat.

"_What the hell happened!"_

She pulled her hand away from the emergency panels and shoved him back into the seat – her grip far steelier than the eye would guess at her slender wrist – and ripped the seat belt down and over in front of him. In absolute calm, she replied, shoving it into his hand:

"I suggest you use that."

His hands moving, his eye on her – he watched in horror as she yanked the throttle straight down with an ominous _clunk._

His gut touched his throat as they sailed into a nose dive.

Time stopped, gravity gone, his body floating away from his seat – his eyes turned back through the rear window facing the dingy sky, as he watched a massive rocket gently glide past in the exact place they had been a fraction of a second before.

He saw it, his death on his smoky trail, close enough to read the writing on its side – for an eternity before sound and terror came rushing back.

She was leading them, head on, into traffic. Seventeen overlapping aerial lanes of traffic, to be precise. Seeing his eyes, she replied in tones more level than appropriate, in her illimitably understated manner of speaking;

"I believe the Blue Suns are trying to kill us."

As they flew directly into the grill of an oncoming civilian freighter – its horn blasting – diving under it so close they could hear it scraping their roof.

"_That may be a fair assumption!"_

He turned to her, so calm on the surface.

"Where the hell-!"

She veered hard left, turning her eye from him, cutting him off with the traffic.

"Gone. All gone."

The _bap- bap-bap_ of automatic gunfire tore to their left flank, Melanis ripped the steering hard right, slipping through an impossible space between two rocketing fast vehicles, and peeled up as still more rockets tore past them.

"…What happened."

There was no doubt about it – the gunship was gaining on them fast.

Composed beyond all reason, even as death rained down all around them from the furious sky, despite the gut wound chilling her flesh, the drell spoke evenly; outlining the tragedy in such detail that it was as if she was showing him, and then he remembered, that she had seen it _all_ and could not forget if she tried.

"Early, I awoke. Mierin's hand on my face – lips moving, the team was leaving. Sidonis had sounded the emergency alarm, everyone was up – we met in the armory, he said Vortash had notified him that plans had change. We had to leave then, or we would lose them and the shipment, or so he said. I looked, Vortash _was not_ in the crowd. Everyone was suiting up, the exchange of dark looks with Mirien – she asked where he was, Sid said he was already in the transport."

"No…_no!"_

But she just kept going. He could see, even though she drove like a fighter pilot, that eye of hers was glassed over, and she was seeing it as her mouth translated what her mind saw in terrible perfection.

"Shock group was supposed to travel separate from infiltration – Mierin, arguing – demanding to know where you were – "

His heart sank to the pit of his chest as his veins seemed to wither from within.

" – He said you left in the night, that you were already in position. He made us all go offline – he said you had been captured and that we had to extract you, but they were alerted to our coming and so none of us could risk going online. Mirien, suspicious – she kept her mouth shut. Her at my side, we stuck together, treading carefully. We boarded, all of it happening in less than five minutes – we left, we soared - "

His head was in his hand.

" – as soon as Sid was out of sight, Mirien's blue hand on mine. We slipped into cargo, and we found what he was up to. All of our medical supplies, all of our rations, bound up in crates. He wanted to make sure no one would survive if anyone made it back."

Rage. A whisper.

"Vortash…"

"We found him in a crate as well. Strangled - wire, from behind. Mirien's eyes, black with hate; but then, the bulkheads sealing – we looked up, a whispering through the vents. Kalahira was smiling – we were standing over a crate containing our respirators; I have never been so lucky. The others however…their screams were short."

Her lips moved bitterly. The shadow of another rocket ghosted across his face from the side window, as he loaded his long rifle.

"A nerve agent. _Coward_. Knew he could _never_ take us on fair terms."

He loaded the heat sink with a _click._

"Everything locked down; we fell from the sky; the ground rushing towards us, the others already dead. We crashed. Fire, and smoke, but the rear hatch opened, jarred from the impact. Mierin…badly, injured…we fled to the sewer. I carried her to Kima, we emerged; I had a barrier on her, I dragged her through the fiery streets back to our bunker. They had already begun to descend upon it. We entered through the basement. I employed Vortash's failsafe – the EMP flatlined their weapons. Remember all that eezo enriched thermite Ripper had us smuggle out of our little stint in T'Mhoga? It worked like a charm; raining down from the pipes in the ceiling, it lacerated them with pure heat. Everything infesting the underground was eradicated, but its still smoldering down there, and I doubt it will be empty when we arrive. We barely made it through - I took her to the second landing, having taken injury... Mierin far worse. I was ready to die with her, but…"

Her eyes met, and he would regret those words the moment he heard them.

"She made me go back…She said…that she knew you were still alive."

The words struck him like a hammer.

He closed his eyes, his head falling slowly down.

A rifle, cold beneath his gloves.

"…how bad is it…"

"She is…done... Severed artery; her leg crushed beneath a crate as we crashed. We had to amputate it then or she would burn. I cauterized it with my omniblade, but the vein had already retracted up into her thigh...She will lose all of her blood without spilling a drop."

He was silent, eyes glazed over and staring.

She was the third woman in his life that he could not save.

"Mel."

"Arc."

"If I make out, Sidonis..."

She gravely listened, pulling to the side as a rocket sailed past, exploding the car flying above them.

"…will be a stain."

He turned around slowly, resting his rifle on the shoulder of his seat, and fired twice in quick succession through the rear window, shattering the plasticized glass.

One to take out the gunship's barrier.

The other to puncture its drive core.

It descended like a dropped stone, thundering as it crashed, deep in the streets deep below.

* * *

What felt like only moments later, Melanis brought the sputtering vehicle down hard and skidding on the ground. Exchanging quick glances that could have been goodbyes, the two killers slipped to the ground as charges singed the air over their heads, tapping and puncturing the thin barrier of failed polymer that shielded them from an encroaching cluster of Blood Pack gunmen. Archangel shooting out from his cover from the front end of the vehicle, Melanis through the broken windows; they cut a path through the fresh swarm of mercs destroying their former property. They could hear shots ringing clear; Mirien, hailing gunfire down from the second floor, catching their assailants in a bottleneck down the bridge, but not fast enough.

He could tell by her groupings, which he had months to observe, that she was off. Her hands once delicate and surgical in their strikes must have been failing her, and knowing her and her limitations as he did, it filled him with abiding dread.

Taking their chance, they raced back to their raped and destroyed home through their covered basement entrance. Melanis, wheezing and coughing blood, covered the door while he sprinted through the cavern they had once inhabited, strewn with carcasses still smoldering. He caught two stragglers behind a corner, having come down to survey the dead, and with two double-taps from his assault rifle he shut them off like lights. He cleared Melanis, who came ambling, bleeding, over the bodies, and he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the elevator, took her gun for her, and changed over her heat sink as she fought to catch her breath.

Up they went, to the ground floor, and the elevator doors opened. Ready, they burst in unison from the threshold, Mierin's desperate shots from above deafening their ears. Melanis skirted along the wall, destroying mercs off guard as she took the left side of the room as Archangel took the right, fast and direct, practiced and precise. Destroying all on his side, he covered her as she approached the main door wildly sliding open, and she hit the override sequence Vortash had made them all memorize, slamming it shut to the stream of murderers gathering outside, thirsted for blood.

The drell, unable to breath, fell against the wall, hacking piteously. He ran to her, taking her under his arm as she fought against the fluid filling her lungs. He guided her quickly up the stairs, her blood slipping beneath their soles. Together they reached the top; him still supporting her as the drell viciously resisted drowning in thin air. Rounding the corner, still guiding her, his eyes fell upon Mierin, propped up in the window and slumped against a rifle, her once flowing silhouette now butchered as utterly as her car.

Her one intact leg folded beneath her, the terrible void where her other should have been just hung vacantly in the air.

He stared at the horror which soldered his eyes to the spot. Choking through blood and mucous, Mel pushed him hard as she coughed, doubled over, shouting,

_"Get her out of here!"_

His legs carrying him, almost against his will, he neared the window. In the weak light, he saw what looked like a corpse wearing a preposterously offensive mask of the woman he once knew. She was shuddering, freezing; her deep indigo skin oddly ashen and completely devoid of its once lively complexion. Her entire face was swollen almost beyond recognition, her crest shot and drooping, her posture slumped as if her spine had been cored out.

It caught the breath in his chest, disturbing him profoundly.

_"Mierin, Mierin, stop."_

He reached, sliding his hands around her shoulders, which pushed with kickback as she unloaded again, missing a ducking merc by inches.

Her voice, barely there, calling like a child through a dream-wrecked sleep.

"No...he's still out there...theyhave to die..."

"I'm here, you can stop, _you can stop._.."

He had to tear her from the window, still firing at them, even though her eyes could barely see. Still holding the gun in her mutilated arms, his heart broke as he slid it from her greying hands, resting it on its side against the wall. He took her into his arms, her lenses glazed over and rolling; she had no weight to her at all. Trembling as she succumbed to the inescapable shock of dismemberment, he pulled her terribly hollow body close to him, her limbs falling like water through his fingers.

Holding her, once so tall and powerful, she was now but rags and blood. She was dying.

His eyes gleamed hollow as he held the ragdoll in his arms. He looked to Melanis and saw the tear upon her face.

She only nodded slowly, her expression inscrutable.

Gunfire all around him, he carried the last hope for a new life into the bedroom across the hall.

Broken.

Like all else.

* * *

Gunfire and tracers sounded and streaked in the torn air all around them, and yet the world was silent with the fading light.

He held her, stroking her crest, as she shivered so violently he thought she would break. She pried breaths out of the air though he could hear her lungs failing her as her gasps became erratic and uneven. She smelled sickly-sweet beneath the sour wash of dying blood, her scent telling that the long hand of death was already resting on her lips. Nestled in his arm, pulled tight into him, he held her face, whispering sweet things to her, but she shook her head, for they meant nothing now, and she knew her fate. Through her shaking teeth, and her eyes, closed from the effort, she spoke in a cloudless whisper, stifled with asphyxia.

_"Shh…please…I knew this would happen…"_

_"Mierin…"_

_"…doesn't…matter now…it's done…"_

Her many long fingers gripping his so tight it hurt, her lips in such a frail smile, she slipped her other hand into the wide cowl of the armor around his neck, and she shook him a little, barely a touch, almost playfully.

"So…_stupid…just…listen...you never…listen…"_

_"...Why...why was I so unfair to you?"_

The plates of his forehead fell to her chin, something soft against something hard.

_"…I used you…"_ he whispered, seeing his terrible truth in a light that hid nothing in its intensity.

But she only smiled softly, stroking his palm with a finger as cold as ice.

_"…My Archangel…I used you too…it's done…and over…there's no use regretting it now…"_

"_Why…why did I do it?"_

He could feel her fading with every breath.

_"…The same…reason I did…you tried… to see… what…wasn't there…"_

Her violet eyes slowly opened as he looked up and into them, so close to his. He was helpless to the dying life in his arms; the dark blue of her skin growing lighter by the moment.

_"Mierin…don't leave me."_

A laugh so small.

_"How…do you think it is…being asari?...To watch everything…everyone just…sicken…and die…Don't mourn for me…please…I've lived your lifespan ten times over…I've been… spoiled with millennia…but you..."_

She put her cold hand to his face, sliding gently down the plates beside his burning eyes, and rested her fingers on his ridge of his shaking mouth, so close to her.

Rain in her ageless eye.

_"…you have so little time…"_

He pulled her into his chest, his pasted together heart falling into pieces as he heard her lips slowly, painfully form the words, and they were all he heard.

_"…I've lived… two hundred years…here…on this fucking rock…and I…"_

He breathed, sharply, painfully – tears welling in his soul, holding her, just holding her, feeling the touch of her breaths become fainter.

_"…wasted…every…second…"_

She slipped her limp, freezing hand behind his fringe, grabbed the blades and pulled him to her face, right into her eyes, millimeters away as he gripped her as hard as he could, trying in vain to keep her grounded, there with him in his arms, from her inevitable loss of mass.

_"…so many years I've lived…and I never…did I live."_

Her eyes were clearer than he had ever seen them before.

_"…Garrus…"_

He stopped breathing.

Eyes like fading violets.

_"Don't waste your time…"_

He shook. He shook as hard as held her.

_"Now…please…bring me Mel…"_

* * *

His trigger finger was so tired, his shoulder so bruised, his starved, exhausted body should have been screaming, but he felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

Drained into his scope, he merely observed them from his cover, his brain in pounding agony. The turian heard the door open behind him. A drell limped slowly over, and stood beside him.

They said nothing to each other.

They watched the mercenaries gather their injured and dead far across the bridge.

She leaned against the window, slipped her eye and her hands around his rifle, and began taking fire at their medics.

He did not stop her.

* * *

A day later, they were depleted of everything. Lantar had been sure to take every necessary precaution in making sure that no one would survive an extended onslaught if a retreat to the bunker was made. The traitor had loaded the doomed transport vessels with all of the remainder of their rations, even MRE's, having timed the coup perfectly so that they were at their lowest provision level of the month, right before Vortash would have arranged for restock. He had taken all of their free canister medigel with them, where it lay unused in the ruined ship, useless the crew who had been mercilessly gassed. The turian and Melanis had been surviving off of tap water, and she vehemently refused to let him heal her with the little bit of gel he had left on his person.

"Get that away from me."

"No. _Take it_. Let me help you, you're bleeding out!"

She shoved him away, the effort catching the air in her lungs, and she doubled over, coughing wetly so hard it made him visibly wince, his fingers tensing up in his palms.

"Mel, you've been shot. _Mel-_"

But she stood up, and looked at him firmly.

"_Archangel."_

Her tone was so definite it cut him off abruptly. He watched her wipe the blood from her lips, and swipe it nonchalantly on her clothes.

"I _do not_ fear death."

He stared at her.

"I have been dying for quite a long time, by my own hand, by a choice - I made long ago. This body will not last the night, and I will not let you waste any resources on it while there is still hope for you."

His head sank into his hand.

Why did she have to be so brave.

Melanis steadied herself against the table, clearing her ruined throat as quietly as she could, though she could barely stay the blood up flowing from her destroyed organs any longer.

One should never underestimate a drell's ability to remain composed, even a foot away from death.

She eyed him fiercely, in complete mastery of herself.

"Listen to me. Turian. Look at me."

He did. They barely even heard the gunshots anymore, and ceased to care when the occasional stray would whiz right by them. His eyes traveled over her smooth, fair green face with its luminous eye, set upon him with unwavering determination.

She spoke.

"I lived the life I chose. I had a choice after my master was struck down and I became free. I own that choice. You, as a turian, should understand."

He nodded, not moving his eyes from her. It tormented him, as he watched her standing there bravely dying, that he had never really taken the time to talk to her. He had had so many opportunities, but yet he never stopped to comedown from his office and his plans. He realized at that exact moment that even though he often spoke to people, he never took the time to actually know them. He saw for the first time in his life that he spent more time in his head, or more time seeing what he wanted to see in others, than he spent in either truth or reality.

It sickened him profoundly, that it took the death of eleven people, to make him finally realize how blind he had been his whole life.

"Archangel, I understand your," She coughed pitiably, but kept a solemn face, and her eyes on him, refusing to acknowledge her suffering, continuing without missing a beat, "- _concern_…But, I think, if I may speak freely, that you were the only one of us naïve enough to believe,-"

She coughed again,

"- that it _wouldn't_ end like this."

And then she smiled at him so warmly that he almost forgot they were being shot at.

"I failed you, Mel."

She shrugged casually, wiping the blood from her hand again.

"It was war. Death is inevitable."

She met his eye calmly.

"I forgive you. For what it is worth."

All he could do was look at her.

"And to be fair, we had a good ride, didn't we? Tonight I can die content that I will not be bored in hell-"

She coughed, laughing sincerely,

"- when I get there and find it crowded."

His mouth opened slightly, in sheer awe.

She still smiled at him, her scarred face sweet, and utterly fearless.

"Melanis" He phlanged very seriously,"I wish I could have gotten to know you better."

She nodded, that smile still on her unphased lips. She dragged herself over to him, grabbed his hand, and clasped it in hers in a way that was almost, oddly, brotherly.

"Me too, Archangel. I hope you make it across the sea, my friend. May you find your woman there."

He clasped her hand tight, as they looked into each other's eyes, wordless, in the crossfire.

She nodded, bowing her head deeply. Then, after a moment, she clapped her bloodstained hands together jovially, and said with a smile and a glittering eye, in her voice that sounded like stones,

"Now, help me and Mierin's spent coil up to window on the west wall. I want to die beside her. She said she always wanted to go out with a bang."

* * *

It was on the evening of the third day that he ceased hearing gunfire from Melanis's vantage. He waited an hour of silence, as he capped the never ending waves of targets scampering across the bridge, barely paying attention, before he accepted that she had finally joined Mierin.

He hoped wherever they were, if they were anywhere at all, that they were together.

At last.

* * *

Six hours later, his eyes closed of their own accord. He snapped them open, and then a moment after, he felt them weigh down yet again.

He was so tired that his body was beginning to fail him. He had been trained to go for extended periods of time without sleep, but three days of constant, full effort fighting on top of starvation, dehydration, severe emotional trauma and stress on top of his accumulated physical injuries was enough to maim even the hardest soldier, himself included.

His supply of adrenaline was utterly spent. A carcass reaping carcasses, he had torn through everything his body had to give just to stay alive, and while he was proud of the massive mountain of dead piled up at the other end of the bridge, his conditioning could not save him from the undisputable fact that his system had reached its limit.

He had been keeping it mostly together, but he had noticed the hallucinations about a day before, and had been trying to not give them any credence in the long hours ever since.

It started at first with lights, like little stars flashing out of the corners of his eyes. He wondered loosely if this was due to his lack of hydration, but he had little time to care, as he could not move from his seat in the window, even for a second, lest an enemy breach his bottleneck. The next time his mind failed him, it was when he was changing a heat sink. He tried clicking it in four times before he realized it was a flare. Now that one scared him, but inspired by Melanis, he simply tossed it to the side, reached for another heat sink, and shrugged it off. Simple mistake.

The next hallucination after that, was sound. He could swear he heard his mother's voice in his ear, spotting for him, reminding him to shoot on the exhale. He turned around to remind her that she hadn't made that mistake since he was seven.

But of course, everyone else in the building was dead.

Chills on his spine.

The mercs just kept falling, and his shoulder felt fractured. His eyes dropping, he could swear he could taste the scent of coffee somewhere nearby. Fond memories of Mierin, slipping on her coat. A black robe and a silhouette. A woman with eyes like rain. His mind adrift, a charge hit the wall right next to him – his eyes snapped open – he unloaded upon a team of four mercs that came barreling down the bridge, picking them off of the long path ahead and even one who had tried to shoot an ML77 at him.

He shook his head violently to wake himself.

_No._

He went to shoot again, but nothing but a dry fire. He stared at his rifle quizzically; he had lost count. What number was he on again? He sighed, no time, no time. He changed the sink over, relishing how the clean sound of the ceramic sliding into place was almost pleasurably magnified by the delay of his exhausted brain. He peered through his optic again, feeling oddly calm, his head light as air.

They looked like insects out there in the vast, through his scope; the magnifying glass.

He remembered Tali said once that there were no insects on Ranoch. He found that odd. He also found it deeply sad that she had probably read that in a codex somewhere, because he knew she had never been to Ranoch.

Poor Tali. Yet another life story let slip through his uncaring fingers.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Falling, falling like the dead leaves of his childhood trees casting their husks on the autumn soil. Falling like the bottles his mother would line up for him, so close at first and then farther and farther, the distance proportional to his years until time stretched on like melted plastic, growing cold and then _snap._

_Bam. _

His eye – a black pupil retracting in a beryl rim.

So slow, the seconds magnified and split into a thousand shards; the sound of glass breaking and distended over one million years.

_What._

Three things that didn't belong. Three question marks in a book of numbers. Three comets streaking across an endless field of night; burning with a trail of gunfire that scorched the very air.

A drell that soared like living water, impervious to bullets; his body a malachite blade that seared through the battlefield - more fluid than solid; reaping the bodies in a trail and a stain.

The most scientifically beautiful human female he had ever seen, a lucid burlesque of beauty and death; black hair on white skin made for sin – Cerberus letters gleaming beneath a sheild of biotics.

But the third.

The third.

She did not appear so much as manifest.

A body, rising up from the mountain of the dead cut down in legion, piled high across the bridge over the river Styx.

A black helm like glass. Nothing beneath and nothing behind.

Shoulders, level.

A waist, cut deep like a hornet.

Hips, in slow motion.

Thighs, familiar.

_It can't be…Impossible…_

One foot before the other, a gun raised and blazing. A five fingered hand ended in a blood drenched blade burning orange and steeped in flowing fury.

Bam.

Bam.

Bam.

The nameless fell before her. Over them she stepped.

Apocalypse was her plaything.

_No._

Brimstone her perfume.

_No._

A flux in reality.

_NO!_

Panic.

His finger moved, a trigger flew, a firing pin soared. She stopped, her shoulder pushed back by a bullet.

She looked up.

She saw him.

Staring.

The blood of a thousand reptiles writhed just beneath her skin.

A basilisk.

A heart turned to stone.

He shot again.

Her gaze transfixed.

Unmoving.

N7.

The letters shone.

Across the universe, through space and time; that which was weightless, now stood rooted to the ground.

Before him.

His heart; his heart raced, and death whispered in his ear, in a shout from the metatron.

"ARCHANGEL!"

Pounding, pounding, fingers shaking, eye looking through an unbelieving lens.

"_ARCHANGEL!"_

In the center of her companions, one on each shoulder, glares blazing; a fist of blue fire and a pistol trained on him.

She lifted her hand.

A helmet fell to her side.

All shattered.

Shattered.

Hair.

Eyes.

A storm in flame.

Again.

"_ARCHANGEL SHOW YOURSELF!"_

_I can still feel you…_

His finger, hovering over the door switch.

_Even though…_

Push.

_I'm gone._

* * *

Author's Note:

Devils speak of the ways in which she'll manifest  
Angels bleed from the tainted touch of my caress  
Need to contaminate to alleviate this loneliness  
I now know the depths I reach are limitless

-_Reptile, _Nine Inch Nails


	20. The Matador

Chapter 19: The Matador

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

So he just kept shooting.

A mercenary, shivering and pushing his luck, peered around the corner of a pillar lined in flickering light.

"_Archangel."_

He couldn't turn around.

He wouldn't.

BAM.

A perfect shot. The jettison of blood from another head. Bam. Another body down, another form collapsed onto the rock hard concrete.

Gone.

Dead.

Dead like Her.

But there it was. The footsteps scraping, in his mind a roar and trembling that came with each sound, each vibration. Through each molecule and across the air, the waves penetrated, whispering of the demon standing in his shade.

He did not believe it. With everything he had he refused against the urge, the nightmare - he fought it with every thin and tired fiber of his worn and bleeding being. It had happened. He had finally snapped.

The voices in his head had spilled forth into the waking realm as water bursts through a broken dam. _Her._ He couldn't. The work wasn't done. It was far from finished. But there, but there was that voice again; a sound as beautiful and terrible as the sea – right behind him – impossible – and yet it simply was.

A law of nature, an act of God.

Asking, on the storm,

"_Archangel."_

Exhale.

Set the gun down.

Clink.

Now the helmet.

Air rushed to a sweat dampened face.

_Turn around._

_Turn around, Garrus._

Her eyes.

Steel.

Ringing was the sound in his ears.

Lips opening, a small breath.

Standing.

Just like on the Citadel.

Just like in the dreams.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Both seeing, and neither believing.

But it was the truth in spite of every doubt.

He had to sit down.

He could only stare, not daring to blink, even for a moment.

Lest she disappear.

Again.

* * *

He was different.

She hid her shivering well, the nerves of the hardened warrior trained from years of conflict. But as she looked down at the turian sitting heavily, steadying himself with his elbows on his sharp knees in the blown out frame of the window behind him, she felt overwhelmingly uneasy. She could barely see him in the tainted dark. Everywhere was the scent of blood; metallic, caustic, and familiar. But even for her the curdled scent of death hung far too thick in the ruined room. Something was burning below, a singeing perfume of melted polymer and flame scorched concrete, rising up from beneath the floor.

And there, alone, in the center of it all, besieged on all sides by destruction was the last man standing in a kingdom of corpses. Leaned into himself and staring, just staring, with dark and wounded eyes.

He blistered his feverish glance to her, the look unearthly; something from a different world. A creature maimed, a bird without its wings.

"Garrus…is that…you?"

For the first time, she was not so sure.

She had always been able to see him. A long time ago, in a far hidden moment, she had come to realize that he possessed a light of a frequency specific to her eye. A sun that only shone for him; his own light followed and lit his path wherever he walked. She had first seen it on the Citadel, when she had just so happened to chance across a stranger, arguing in public. And that light, which shone upon her cheek - the only joy of a terrible day, just one in a terrible year, just another in a terrible life - drew her, against her will, brawling, out from beneath her shade. And every day after, however hard she tried, she could not escape the ray which drew her from her depths like a fish to a sunlit sky, glancing through cold water.

Across the galaxy, through hell, to its deepest circle.

The urge to see him was irresistible; to hear his voice was a madness. When they had fought, he had seen straight through her; and it terrified the woman beneath the scales to her deep and shameful core. She never wanted anyone to see beyond that which she had carefully made; her mask of armor and fire. The world saw everything she felt she wasn't, the farthest thing from the little orphan in the yard. But beneath, was something hidden in the dark, something that had grown in a far deep cave, so distanced from sunlight that its eyes were milky and blind. She knew so much now to be true; everything the tall alien who had been more human to her than most of her own kind had ever said. Now, looking at him, as she stood shaking at the burning wick of a very long and strange story, she saw a being in magnetic light and wondered, if it was too late to say she was sorry.

Now that the lights in his eyes were stolen.

The silence was more than uncomfortable. Not moving a millimeter, she could hear Thane circling, hands calmly folded behind his back, observing like a hawk waiting to strike. She had earned his loyalty to her, and he had assisted dearly in her delirious pursuit to find what she had lost after losing so much more.

The worst mistake of her life. The drell, the only one who understood on a ship concerned with other plans. The turian said nothing.

Shepard stepped very carefully towards him.

Moving a millimeter at a time, gingerly, methodically, exactly as one would to a strange dog, she lifted her hand, and removed her glove, not daring to tear her eyes from their lock with his, glowing slightly in the dark.

Her grey lenses watched him intently, her gaze pulled so tight her eyelids burned. She exposed her palm, and opened it to him, with softly trembling fingers, taking another step as if barefoot across broken glass.

"_Shepard, don't – he doesn't look right."_

"_Quiet, Miranda."_

Close enough to reach out and touch him, she stopped, nerves vibrating with adrenaline. Her hand reached across the black void, before him, but he never looked away from her eyes, and neither did she. She swallowed hard, as the words came out softly, with no fear.

"Garrus…It's me..."

But his eyes burned still darker.

"No. It's not."

She exhaled, not daring to look away from his hollowed gaze for even a second. Inhaling, she reached for him another fraction, sweat gleaming on her skin, and she could hear Thane's finger slide onto his SMG.

The thought crossed her, that it was possible he had lost his mind.

But the turian spoke again, in voice she barely recognized, something once deep and kind now bitter cold; hollowed.

"It's not."

He stared at her.

"It's not because you're dead."

She cautiously, carefully, shook her head, her heart hurting in her chest.

_God._

_God, what had happened to him._

"I did die…and I know this is hard to swallow…but I'm here now…I'm alive… _again…right…now_…"

Light gleamed across his unbreakable gaze.

"Prove it." he said quietly.

She pressed further, her fingers trembling.

"I swear…I swear to God, I will tell you the whole story, everything,_ anything - _"

Desperation. No one in the room had ever heard even a drop of it in her voice before.

"- _anything in the entire universe you want to know. I'll tell you. But you have to trust me."_

She tilted her head down, hair falling besides her eyes, which focused on him, as they bore into each other.

Her voice, grave and low, softly cracked through its armor, in whisper only he could hear.

"_Please trust me...again."_

She saw his eyes fall down to her hand as his moved, and she watched as he lifted his arm and slipped his fingers around her wrist. He set his eyes upon her palm, and stared into it, as if reading their fate in its fine lines. Very, very slowly, he reached beneath a plate of his armor and pulled out something small and stained, carried in absolute secret, for nearly three years.

Paper. Folded in a perfect square.

Her eyes opened like an aperture, and she watched, breathless, as he pressed it into her open palm.

"What is written on this."

It wasn't a question.

"I told you…_to throw that…away…"_

"Answer me."

Her lips began to shake.

"…_Why did you –"_

"_Answer me."_

A guilt so sharp it cut her soul down to its roots. Tears that stung. Her eyes, with their rain and storm clouds shook as did her voice.

"…A name…"

His eyes so fierce and hurt.

"_When..."_

"I was…twelve…but…_how do you_…."

"What does it say."

She looked from one eye to the other, unbelieving.

She had hoped, to never use that name on Omega again.

But like so much she had hoped for; was either gone, or hanging by a thread.

"…_Seraph…"_

The ghost, of a life that just kept on haunting. A life that wouldn't stay dead even in its tomb of ash.

His hand slipped from hers, leaving the paper smoldering within; her eyes closed and gripped it as he slid past, standing in his full height, taking up his rifle. She could feel Thane's watchful eyes on her spine, but with the smallest flick of her hand at her side, she signaled him back.

She had expected it to be bad, but not like this.

"How did you find me." Asked the turian quietly.

That voice.

Staring down, she whispered.

"I just knew."

He turned to her, and her eye slid into his.

A moment, tensed.

Looking deep through to him, the world around them fading, she spoke; words that should have been said sooner, so much sooner, but life often makes other plans.

"…I heard there was someone here insane enough to take on Omega with vengeance. I got suspicious. I heard there was someone who had a vigilante deathwish, and I got interested. But when I heard…that someone had cut a swathe of fire so fierce through the three most vicious crime syndicates in this godforsaken system, and that every gang lord on this rock was sleeping with the lights on…"

Her eyes burned into his, and there he fell.

The dream, real.

"…I knew."

She shook her head, not tearing her glance from him as he stood breathing before her.

"…I knew… it could only be you…Finally living your dream, in your land without law…"

He stared.

"You…remembered."

A bittersweet smile reached her lips.

"How could I possibly forget…You're completely insane…And that's why...I need you."

He exhaled, just looking at her, through eyes he never dreamed of seeing again, and she looked back.

There. In truth.

There.

"…And when I heard there was a turian up here, a sniper so lethal they couldn't clear the dead away fast enough, for three full days…"

His heart was shaking.

"…I ran like a child, like an idiot, straight here. And I didn't care…

"Anything."

Her eyes.

"_Anything."_

Her lips.

"To get …"

Burning through his core.

"…my best friend back…"

They looked into each other, through the quiet music ringing between, and although they did not touch, it did not matter. Their worlds had collided, again. Planets doomed by gravity. And though it was three years from the day they had first met, that moment between them felt as dark and sweet as the scent of rain.

He bowed his head, and for the first time that his tired mind could recall in months, years, he felt something relax in his chest, a merciful release behind his eyes and in his gut, and he looked up to her, and she saw the smallest gleam of life come back.

He shook his head, just looking at her, standing there, the woman with the red hair.

It really was her.

"So…here we are…again."

She nodded slowly," I…I need your help."

He let out a small snort, almost a laugh. Almost.

"Now I know it really is you…Nice to know you haven't changed."

But she only gazed at him, with sadness in her eyes.

"If only that were true."

He approached the window, looking through it at the mercenaries at the other end of the bridge gathering like locusts.

"You, riding in on the tide of war in your entourage of fire. Me, in over my head, again, backed into a corner. Impossible odds, not enough resources, and a tiny window for success."

He turned, and their eyes met.

"Just like old times, Shepard."

He didn't know how lovely those words felt to her ears.

"So here I am," she said in a shrug, pacing, arms crossed, sort of looking down as she walked, glancing back at him "…Again. Asking for you...I thought Garrus was a tough Turian to find, I wouldn't dream 'Archangel' would keep even more exclusive company."

"Well..." he trailed off, watching the calm before the storm, "…I learned from the best."

She smirked very slightly at the cosmic irony of that statement.

"I have to say I like the new name. I wonder what inspired you_."_

Shepard watched him tense almost imperceptibly.

"…Just something the locals called me. For all my…good deeds…"

"Mmm hmm."

He avoided her deep glance as he looked out to the distance, methodically watching the masses of hired killers regrouping and convening.

"Just needed to keep my skills sharp. A little…_target practice_."

Her cleaved brow raised. He was still unbelievable sometimes.

"Only you would be so bold as to call playing matador with an entire asteroid 'target practice'. Is that why you took two shots at me?"

He said nothing for a long time, before replying very quietly, " I needed to keep you on your toes. Get you moving. I've been up here quite a while, and besides, you were taking your sweet time."

She bowed her head in unbridled regret. To her boots, she said, "I am sorry we didn't reach you sooner."

Still looking away, he replied, "I'm afraid that the mistake that destroyed this operation, was made far before you arrived."

The hollowness of him killed her inside.

Shifting her weight, still pacing a bit, pieces of dialogue she had gleaned from the mercenaries she had questioned sifted back to the forefront of her mind, and she began to speak. She knew he was exhausted – she could see it all over him like a fog. She heard he making mistakes, and she knew that wasn't like him – it spoke that his situation was dire. He looked dangerously thin, and his complexion was somewhat sallow and shaded beneath his worn paint. He looked older now, and aged.

She wanted to keep him talking, avoiding that silence, and that thousand yard stare.

"So how did you manage to piss off every merc group in the Terminus System?" she asked, curious.

"It wasn't easy. I _really_ had to work at it…I am amazed that they all teamed up to fight me with such…enthusiasm. They must really hate me."

"Oh, they do…And I heard you had a team…"

His tone sliced the calm just beginning to wash over her, and she lost it in the sadness that took his voice.

"…Not anymore…"

Shepard shook her crimson head in disbelief, looking at him as stood turned away from her.

"How did you let yourself get boxed in like this?" she asked softly, but he gave no reply.

Meanwhile, Thane, in his nearly soundless steps, scraped his sole surely across a dark stain swiped on the floor as his sharp eyes surveyed, drinking in the details of the room. In his halcyon and graveled voice, he quietly commented,

"There was a Drell here…"

Shepard turned, and watched him. Archangel, did not move.

His all-seeing eyes looked further. Cocking his head, his disciplined glance followed a separate trail of blood in reverse to a telling black smear beside the window and out the door. His glance met Shepard, glinting with reserved concern.

"And an Asari."

They watched as Archangel rested his hands upon the bloodstained ledge, and bowed his head, his frill in outline.

"Gone."

"How?"

"…My feelings got in the way of my better judgment…"

The Turian shook his head solemnly, before inhaling and standing straight, forcing himself up. He took up his rifle and set his eye through the lens, seeing far down below to the targets gathering at the edge.

She heard him say the next phrase with a bitterness she had never heard on his voice before.

"We were…sold out…"

The lioness's eyes narrowed in the gloom.

"_Who."_

"One of our own...A Turian named Sidonis_."_

She memorized the name, slowly, deliberately, carving it into her mind.

"Get me out of here alive, "

He looked back over his shoulder, that sky colored eye glinting through his exhaustion.

"- and I'll tell you the whole damn story. I think we've got more than a little catching up to do. "

There it was again.

The voice, and the eyes.

She approached, standing by his side. He passed her the still warm rifle, and he watched her shoulder it into her narrow body, leaning far into his lens. He observed her eye slide over them, and she said in quiet tones.

"Smart to set up across a bottleneck like this. That's like you. I bet this place was impressive before things fell apart."

He nodded, his eyes still on the horizon. "Actually, it wasn't my place to begin with, but that's a tale for a different night. We had to keep in the dark a lot, but, yes. It was. That bridge has saved my life, funneling all those _witless idiots_ through my scope, but it works both ways…They'll slaughter us if we try to go out that way."

_BAM. _

She let the recoil slide through her. Screaming pierced in the distance as another mercenary fell to the ground.

He couldn't believe his eyes, but he could swear she smiled, just a hair, watching the criminals fly back into action, scurrying in fear, their momentary relapse of relaxation fractured by her shot.

"Unfortunate, but true. Are there any other exits?" she asked, unperturbed.

"No, we sealed them. I think it's mostly Eclipse out there. Scouts. I think they've figured out their infiltration team failed." he said, still watching her slide his barrel over the distance, dipping his plated head towards the carnage, without taking his glance from her. She shook her head in disagreement, taking her eye away from his optic and passed the weapon back to him.

"Not scouts, armor's too heavy. They've regrouped and called in bigger fish – they're getting desperate. But they're still apprehensive - we can exploit that."

She looked up to him as he took his gun from her hand, his gaze so close.

There was so much to be said, but no time at all.

He exhaled purposefully, watching as she pushed her wayward hair behind her ear, and looked back, with familiar grey eyes. The brow, though now lost of its scar, the sweat on her face, her scent, the way she observed him – calm but serious, concerned, unblinking, fierce, and a touch melancholy.

It was real.

And he could barely begin to understand how. The breath left him fully, and shaking his more than tired head, he said as he just looked at her, standing beside him, again.

"That awkward moment where your closest friend is still alive, after two years in the grave, and you have no idea where to begin."

He looked into her eyes with abject disbelief.

"I should have figured only you could be stubborn enough to stave off death itself."

She cocked her head to the side, arms still crossed, and said plainly as her eyes held his, in her low and sober tones,

"Ditto."

They looked into each other, in the same surreal epiphany.

They had met for the first time, again.

Somehow.

In the vast.

"So, I believe I've asked you this before, but what's your plan? I kind of hate this place. I'd like to get going."

"Well," he said, keeping her eye as they turned to look upon the others. Miranda, leaning against a pillar with a seduction that didn't reach her expression, and Thane standing lean and soundless in a shadow, hands clasped behind his back as he watched in zenful observation.

"I see you've brought…_friends_…Cerberus," he said nodding to Miranda, who smiled saltily, tilting her lovely head back to survey him down her nose, "Charmed." said she in corrosive tones. He could hear her erudite accent ringing clear even through his translator. "Likewise," he said flatly, before flicking his glance over to Thane. His trained eye swept over the M12 Locust glinting at his side.

He couldn't help but run through its features - like pornography - in his mind.

_550 RPM automatic, recoil-reducing mechanism - accurate at long range, barely any muzzle climb - Damn. Nice choice._

"And a Drell. I take it if you're hanging around with Her," said Garrus, tilting his head toward Shepard, "Then you're probably some kind of badass."

Thane smiled warmly.

"Yes. That has been said."

He liked him immediately.

"You know me," said Shepard with a deep sarcasm, shooting a look to Miranda as she rolled her eyes with supreme annoyance, before hooking them back to catch Garrus's subtly amused gaze.

"Strange bedfellows, and all."

The Turian couldn't help but laugh at that.

"No kidding."

_Phit._ A charge slid past them. Thane casually eyed the place where it struck, and remarked serenely,

"That may be our cue."

"Agreed. " said Shepard, turning her eye back to the Turian, "Any grand ideas, 'Archangel'?"

"As much as I don't mind your use of that name, it's... just Garrus to you," he said silkily to her, almost embarrassed, and she smirked, walking beside him as he set his eyes to Thane and Miranda, "We're vastly outnumbered…But with the three of you, I suggest, we hold this position, wait for a crack in their defenses, and then take our chances."

Shepard exhaled with a touch of anxiety. He knew she didn't like it.

"It's not a perfect plan, but it's a plan."

Miranda cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"I don't like it. It seems like we would be just waiting to be taken out."

_Phit! Phit!_

The mercenaries, fueled by the silence of the Turian's rifle, were getting bold; Miranda plumed in a biotic barrier as pieces of the reinforced concrete right beside her broke apart with the impact, throwing splinters of wall into her hair.

Shepard unlatched her shotgun and it unfolded into her hands, "Better them than us. I say we draw them in little by little, in stages, and until they have to reconvene again, then we make a break for it. Oh, and I've got a little surprise planned."

"Oh?" said the Turian, loading a heat sink into his rifle with a _click_ as she crossed the room to the door, waving Thane over to Garrus, who approached him calmly swaggering. She looked back over her shoulder, meeting his eye with an ominous smile.

"If at some point you see a big ass LOKI mech completely lose its shit and start testing the limitations of the phrase 'friendly fire' –"

The smirk turned devious, the light catching her hair.

His demon.

His muse.

"That'd be me. _You're welcome_."

He shook his head slowly in quiet awe, his eyes sharp beneath his visor.

"I have a good vantage from here, I'll offer suppressive fire where I can. And you – "

Their eyes met.

"You can do what you do best."

Her hands moved, calloused, practiced; he watched her ride the thermal clip ride into her vintage modified HMWSG VI shotgun with its extended rail, her fingers like serpents curled around the heavy weapon. She tucked it so easily beneath her arm, and set on her glassy helm with the other, her hair like fire swallowed behind black armored plates.

"Miranda, you're with me. Garrus, guide us over the comm, channel six."

She turned to him, those silver lenses piercing.

Eyes in flame.

And that evil smile.

"_How about you and me spill a little merc blood? You know, for old time's sake."_

A smile returned, deep and dark in the black pit of his heart.

"_I thought you'd never ask."_

She was back.

And so was he.


	21. In Truth, Siha

Chapter 20: In Truth, Siha

A desert. He drank her.

She is living water beneath her steel.

He was a man lost who had been found. I knew him by his glance at her. The way they longed for each other.

We never forget.

Time is a mirrored pool to which I fall, seeking your reflection beside mine.

And I fell.

I drown mesmerized in its clarity.

Though the years have worn me, and in this moment, my health runs thin… I can still feel you... my fingertips suffer in the memory of your skin.

Your eyes in mine, and in them, my setting sun.

Now you are but air.

Massless at my side.

You destroy me.

And I welcome it.

You still breathe in me, beneath my clothes.

Your voice a memory perilously clear. Fire in my blood. How one never forgets the touch of blessed hands, the kiss of lips upon the ear, and the softly spoken words for which I lived to listen.

That I must die to hear.

Again.

He drank her.

And I watched.

And when She left us in the company of the vixen with the raven hair, it was as if a light had gone out for him, and he fell beside me to his battle sleep. Such a strange thing to see outside of oneself. Although I can recall everything, each moment of every day for the ten years I walked that past, that hollowness, that dullness in the eyes - it is still something to behold. How his enemies fell in a furious tide. Without mercy or care, he wasted them upon the battered stone, a master of his weapon. A hungry ghost.

Wave after wave, he returned them to the sea.

And as I counted his kills for him, I saw something familiar there, written in the carnage.

I became witness, turian, that we drink from the same deep water.

Goddesses.

You are crystal pools. Oasis, in the sand.

Do you not see how we wander, thirsted and weary?

Our hands cupped.

And dying.

For even a single drop of your mirage.

For the spring that flows within the desert.

I played my part, and cut them down beside him, silent in knowledge that was not mine to share. There was so much he did not know.

How she wept for him, and I listened.

The tears she had shed an ocean deeper than the blackest star.

A hole, that leads to where no one knows.

To the other side.

To beneath the sea. From whence she came; its dark water still dew upon her skin when she met me at the edge of my grave, where I fell again, into that glassy pool.

For twenty-nine nights she wept at my side, besides my altar. Soundless peals.

Until the moment came, when she asked me, to teach her something she had forgotten, long ago, in a place that always rained.

When she asked of me, to learn again, to pray.

When she told me of the faith she had abandoned; that which she had off from her soul and traded.

Sold, for a chance and a dream.

Of flying.

Those eyes of silver, searching me.

Asking.

_Please._

I cannot forget.

I cannot forget...how I saw you there, Irikah.

And living as I did, as I had, I could not refuse.

How could I?

In my atonement, this…was divine.

A calling.

Purpose, in the crushing void. There was a reason I did not greet you that night on Illium. As I had promised you, in a whisper, that I would. And so if you are in our field beyond those waves still waiting...Please…forgive me. My work is not yet done.

How I know you hate those words.

But yet I know your hand is somehow in this. My angel.

Your dark humor. How you torment me.

That night, I taught her, as I taught you.

But of course, you know that.

_Siha…_

…Do you still recall, as I do so often now…

…How our prayers always led to somewhere else?

So sweet your tongue, and sharp.

My love, I taught her to pray. Only to pray.

The rest...

Only…

For you.

Only you.

Every evening thereafter, her tide of tears receded into the sea as foreign moons rose in cloudless skies, and we whispered, our voices together in the dark. As yours had been beside mine, once, but is no longer. And though I am the master, it seems that fate has dared me with both a student and a rival. You know how I prefer the quiet. But this is…a challenge. But as you know, I am religious.

In my art.

I taught her to pray.

I taught her to prey.

How many fell before us, into our lake of fire.

She makes one race against oneself. To be stronger. Faster.

To earn a good death.

Her turian, exhausted; his face a death mask and a faltering glance. I kept his mind with me with games of marksmanship, but his fatigue had failed its confinement. I could see his effort breaking. He had lost too much, in time too short. The lionesses returned panting, thirsted; their hair slick with sweat and skin gleaming in blood. The turian tore his trembling, heavy eye away from his lens gratefully and cast it upon her; her sight a balm, their eyes touching in embrace again.

But we did not know.

We did not know.

The gunship rising like a head, leering with red pointed teeth; its fleas flying through the windows.

His jaw moving, we rushed to action – _"Dammed it, I thought I took that thing out already!"_

We ducked, finding cover, and raised and aimed to fire; us on one side of the long stretched hall, them on the other. Streaks of blue and red – almost beautiful, if not for the scent of melted flesh. She rose and surged ahead; fearless – ringing light in the turian's hail, her charges singing, bursting through flesh and bone in a tempest of destruction.

But no, his voice in a buzz in my ear; they had repelled down the side wall and ran forth to breach the stairs. Our right flank wide open – we spread like flies, panicked, furious to hold our form against them. She tore to our unshielded side and released her hell upon them, pining them back, my aim all around her in a halo so befitting. They bit into us, desperate - though we pushed back as hard they pushed forward. All so fast – exhausted though we cut them down – from chaos in one moment to peace and pieces in the next, the last body falling without a prayer.

She turns to him, catching his labored breath across the hall – almost a smile, but her lips stop cold as time froze still.

And just like that it all fell apart, a fragile dream.

Her eyes, her eyes so wide with fear at what she saw descending through the glass behind him – but not for herself.

Never for herself.

Forever, I will recall.

Yes, I will recall.

Hair flinging like a bleeding crown. She throws her glance to him – her lips open, time stretches on in the unfathomable distance - she screams; words – cut short – so far apart across the space, space rushing apart – too far.

Too far to save him, as his castle in the sand shattered in an explosion of broken glass.

The vixen and I, splayed behind cover, so thin – too thin, mere concrete – just paper against the fire. Shots firing – deafening loud – crying past, immeasurable – the turian – still standing – he turns to face the wind -

And into him pierces a deluge.

Perforated; his center driven back, a mist of blood.

He falls.

He falls clashing to the floor.

She runs – she runs not fast enough – her rifle blazing red – but he rises, he rises and turns, again. Again in spite of the violence and the screaming, the inferno and the metal, he rises.

He looks back.

Eyes wide.

Eyes wide, and fire.

Thrown.

Her face.

His, gone.

The shaking, and the sound that my ears will never forget, and can still hear, even now.

Irikah…

I saw it…

Movement, a blur.

Faster than the eye can follow.

From her back she unfolded a massive weapon. She felled the ship with the flame that feeds the cosmic cycle itself. I watched it pour from her and cleave the waking plane to smite them, to tear them from the sky, and fling them to the ground. My ears deafened with the roar of her fury. Gods and goddesses, angels and spirits – we speak of them so often, we speak of them and pray to them and yet we do not understand, cannot comprehend - what it is like to look upon a light so fierce it blinds the sun.

All we could do, was stare.

How she held him.

How she held him, as you once held me.

She clasps him bleeding to her chest. She cries out , shaking - and she pushes, and she holds his face together as the plates float on in the warm river of his blood. He gasps, and she gives breath to him, though he drowns surrounded by air.

He should have died.

Her fingers, the eternal silk to smooth the ragged, from her flaming lips whispers that can feed the starved. From her eyes a tide that rises from the ash to forgive all, that bathes his suffering in forgiveness. The flame that kindles any fire. The water that brings spring to any soil. The light that fills any shadow, no matter how dark.

The tears of a Siha can heal any wound.

He should have died, but he did not.

In truth…

Siha.

I have found another of your kin.

Many would lay down their lives to glimpse only one. As I saw you, in time, through the lens on the day that changed my life.

And I have now known two.

How bittersweet, the taste of fate.

And of those tears.

That I knew as I lifted him, and carried his still smouldering body to her ship with the wide gleaming wings, that those tears, would no longer fall upon my shoulder.

Tears that were never yours.

Except…

In my mind.

How I wished them to be, how guilty I am.

I only dream of you.

But...alone I walk.

Again.


	22. Human Behavior

Chapter 21: Human Behavior

He shuddered in her arms. Freezing cold, his body wreckage in a cobalt fountain. The plates that made him, the facets and angles of his geometry, his entire being - slipping through her fingers like water. It was impossible to hold all his pieces together. Collapsed, trembling, and clinging to him – she tried with every fiber of her grit to keep his plates still against the tide ripping him apart, pouring from the hole where his face once was.

"_Don't you die on me! Don't you dare die on me now – not now, not now!"_

But he rasped and he turned, freezing fingers still coiled around the edge of his weapon until the moment his dying heart changed flux, and they fell limp as his central circuitry rerouted to keep his draining blood flowing through his core, to no avail.

"_Thane! Thane! Christ, get over here and help me!"_

To no avail.

Tears fell on him like rain, the only thing he could feel, but yet they slipped away so surely, all the world breaking until its sound became a roar – the collective ringing of everything he had ever heard, thundering through the air, so great and powerful he feared falling into it forever to never hear again. But hands held him from the chasm screaming beneath, small hands around his face, a whisper he could barely hear against the screaming bellows of the shattering world, the distended ring of reality being torn apart, molecule by molecule, atom by atom.

"_Please, please stay with me, stay with me…"_

Memory by memory. Ash by ash.

Blurs and tracing movement, so thick the scent of blood and something burning. He drifted in a sea of moving color slowly on the waves of the terrible roar, barely afloat. But in his shattering sky from the he thought he saw someone looking back, as if through rippling water, as he drifted, far beneath swiftly rising waves.

The water was cold, but if felt beautiful in its sharpness. Numbing, ice – a pleasant shock as every sense released at first in protest and then, so softly, evaporated. He calmly watched the light above slipping through the ripples, further, farther, until all that remained was a silver memory; pale moonlight from the sky filtering though the waves which washed high over his head.

As he sank like snow into the knew he couldn't swim, and it didn't matter anymore.

It felt nice, actually.

Peaceful. Drifting.

The light high above the gathering dark, farther and farther.

Gently, slipping down.

Without warning, hands.

Wrapping, grasping.

Arms and a grip like steel, from fingers so thin and many.

Warmth in the cold.

He looked, though he could scarcely see, he felt rather than saw something approaching him in the abyss.

In the deepest sea, in the place furthest from the sun, something was burning blinding white. Swirls of luminescence of a form he could barely understand – a nebula, a birthing star made of divine fractals too complex to understand and to beautiful to describe. It surrounded him, too massive to see in its fullness, only catching it in pieces, its edges so fiercely bright. A nova – searing feeling back into his mind while deafening the endless waves of water as he fell encircled by infinite rings of light.

So bright, so lucid – it burned his eyes, he could barely see – so fiercely radiant and huge, tearing through the sea roared a hidden force, crashing from the sky. He felt it enveloping him in its fiery wings, drawing him into its blazing core.

So foreign - this alien in the deep, and so massive it was that he was powerless to it, to its starlike aura, to its thousand wings so far greater than he could perceive. But in its unknown sphere with its form so strange, he felt, with certainty something familiar reaching to lift his head hung low.

Fingers beneath his jaw, and palms sliding on his face – if he could see, if he could only see in the blinding light, drawing closer, so close to something at the edge of memory, brimming on the cusp of the corporal so far away – but even in the water, even in the dark - the touch, a touch remembered.

And through the burning palms that lay upon his face, lips.

Something opening his mouth.

Breath.

Pouring in like a fountain.

Arms, around him.

So many arms, and hands.

Ringing, in his ears.

Rushing, towards the surface.

Breaking through the waves.

Crashing up.

Up.

Floating, as if through a beam.

Roaring, silent.

Into a vessel of blinding light.

Taken.

Stars ripping past as he broke across an endless sky, shifting black to white, red to blue.

Unusual in their features.

Strange faces not from his world.

What was he lying on…metal…something hard, his body pushed back by many hands.

A ceiling now, its lights above drifting and between them, faces hidden in silhouette.

Voices in incomprehensible tongues.

So much metal everywhere.

Instruments.

Gleaming things he did not recognize.

But the touch upon his hand.

He gripped it.

The only thing real.

Three fingers, in five.

A warm release.

A gentle push.

And sleep.

* * *

For seven days, she guarded him.

Mordin had given up on fighting with her, no small task, but even salarians had their limits. She could stay, he said, but only if she kept quiet and out of his way while he worked, manically, on his patient. Although she had not known him long, she could read from his frenzied nature, so absorbed in the here and now, that this was an exceedingly rare gesture of empathy for him, though she suspected Chakwas had much to do with it, as the operating theatre was technically hers. And so, the commander obliged the sinewy doctor, and she watched over the broken turian day and night, unwilling to move even a fraction as he slept without a sound, laying still and pale.

It was by the third evening that she had given up on her duties. Her data pad was her only portal to the outside vessel, which she had no interest in perusing even for a moment, untouched near the door.

_Let Miranda play captain for a while. It's her ship anyway,_ she thought bitterly, to no one.

By the fourth morning, she had shut off her ever buzzing omnitool; Thane, the only one with enough sense to leave her alone. She knew her young, insightful yeoman meant well, but no amount of kindness or food from Gardner sent in from the mess, laying largely untouched in the trash, was going to going to convince her to leave the turian's side.

Not again.

It was the middle of the night on the seventh day. Exhausted, starved, and drained of tears, she merely sat, uneasily in her chair, staring at him. She had observed the bandages migrating across his face, as the machines stitched him slowly back together; cell to cell, axon to dendrite, myocyte to plated dermis.

She watched him lying there, mourning. Long after the lights shut off each night cycle and her only company became the low glowing dark and the gentle murmur of equipment, she remained by his side.

She sat leaned into her knees in her chair across from where he lay, wondering how he could look so familiar and so wrong. Still washed from his surgeries his darkened face was bare of paint, the trauma having completely changed his complexion, and the soft rings around his eyes to black. It was so strange to see him unadorned from the lines so carefully drawn, on the small part exposed from the scaffold still weaving his many pieces into one. The sterile light upon him pained her; he looked fragile, the glow on his plates a sickened gleam, as if he was made of glass so thin it could break at the slightest whisper. And so she said nothing. Breathng in silence, her head in her hands, just watching, as he slept.

The possibility that he would never move again, very real in her mind.

His chest rising and falling, so fractured.

Tears surged again.

But she couldn't look away.

Too long, had she hid that glance, too afraid to see.

To feel.

And look where it had gotten her.

The tears welled in her eyes, water from a riverbed long dry, but she blotted them back, wiping them from her tired face amidst a searing migraine. Her eyes were swollen beyond recognition, and they closed as she bowed her head, her hands in her lifeless hair as she felt the pain wrack through her in burning waves.

Guilt rolling through her, waves of endless depth.

From the back of the room, too pitied to watch anymore, stepped Karin Chakwas, setting down her codex. She had lived longer than the woman she witnessed weeping soundless on the chair, and in her career she had seen much suffering. As a doctor, she had long since learned to compartmentalize. In her decades of practice, she had mastered a calm over her emotions that allowed her to operate cleanly even in abject chaos.

But never in all her years did it get easy to watch the living waste away.

The silver-haired surgeon approached the bent woman in the chair with soft steps, and with her eyes mourning for her in empathy, she placed a hand between her shoulder blades, and stroked.

Her hand was warm, and heartfelt.

Shepard glanced up at her through her hands, silver eyes greeting blue, and they looked into each other.

It was usually Shepard comforting victims.

"Dear...He's going to recover." said Chakwas quietly to her with a face lined with sadness and concern.

Shepard bowed her head, her lank hair falling in her face, and she pushed it back; her gaze falling to the mathematical patterns of the tiles lining the floor.

"…I know…but…you have to understand…he's never, _really_, going to…be…"

She trailed eyes met again, Shepard's dark.

"Trust me. I know."

The doctor, her heart heavy, nodded; knowing her commander's words to be true. As a trauma surgeon, she knew better than to ask most veterans about the things that they had seen, if they weren't ready to talk about them. She knew from age that many of them weren't.

She had never asked about Akuze. But from what she had heard from a few friends that had cleaned up the aftermath – for no one but her had survived with any treatable injury, she couldn't even begin to imagine what her commander had survived, and what she must have done to do so. That alone, had kept her silent in the time she had known her from asking about the nightmare that had started her career.

She crossed the room, retrieving a glass from a cabinet near the door, and filled it with ice and cold water from the cooler. It wasn't much, but she knew Shepard's complete inability and utter lack of concern for her own well being in the pursuit of protecting others was borderline masochistic, and that her guilt could be self-destructive. She remembered how, after Kaidan's death, her commander had simply disappeared for days, sending orders and coordinates through her terminal in absolute isolation, not showing her face for even for mealtimes.

And she remembered with great clarity, the explosive argument just a few weeks after, right before the battle that nearly destroyed the Citadel. How bitterly she and the turian had fought, over what – no one knew. It pained her, after silently watching them grow so close together during the first and final flight of the now doomed Normandy SR1. The doctor poignantly recalled pleasant times of the two coming into the clinic laughing after lighter missions, trading stories and trying to one-up each other with the severity of their flesh wounds, teasing about missed shots and the associated stereotypical hindrances of the others alien anatomy. She, the now august woman who had spent so much of her life alone on her journeys, had found it so vicariously sweet to see them together in the quiet mess in the long hours after everyone else had gone off. On more than one occasion, she had noticed them lingering in each others company even after their inseparable friends the asari and the quarian had decided to call it a night after the day's troubles had subsided.

The doctor remembered one late evening in particular as she had gone down for a midnight cup of tea, her mug eagerly empty after a tiring day spent suturing the bitter krogan back together. She stopped in her paces; the lights of the mess down and dim, and she laid eyes on them seated side by side, staring out the window together in complete quiet, watching the universe float calmly past as a table full of deconstructed firearms lay abandoned behind them. In her memory, she could still see their silhouettes beside each other, so different in the soft dark, seated closer together than she suspected they would dare if they knew they were not alone. She recalled, quite clearly, slipping back out of the room without making a single sound.

Wondering, if they knew they were in love.

She handed her the water, and had to give her a stern look in order for her to even take it, but after a moment she did, submitting to her thirst. She watched the younger woman drink, noting her lips chapped from dehydration, and the doctor exhaled in dismay.

"You're no good to anyone ill, Commander. You really need to leave, and sleep."

But Shepard shook her head, and said quietly, not tearing her eyes away from Garrus for even a moment, "No."

Chakwas turned her head, looking at the unconscious turian, and considered, her brows tense. She turned again to the woman seated tear stained in the chair, brought to her knees by the weight of guilt, unable to even stand.

"Shepard."

Grey eyes through red hair. The doctor looked away, deeply into the wall, past the machines, past the room and the stars themselves. Shepard looked at her, and watched the older woman's pensive expression with laser like focus. She did not look back at her.

"When I was your age…younger, actually, I decided to leave England…Earth…Forever…I…well...I never much cared for it. I believe once, I told you that I found life planet-side terribly boring…but..."

Their eyes met, young in old.

"That was only half a truth."

A chill ran over Shepard.

"When you get to be my age, when you live long enough, see enough war, enough battles, and every branch and root of human nature, my dear…it is so easy to lose hope."

She stared harder at the wall, her eyes piercing through their lines.

"To become…bitter. And to never…ever want to return home."

Shepard sat back in her chair, not daring to blink for even a moment, breathing as her heart pounded in her chest. It was as if she was speaking from her own future.

"And…I never did. I left everything, I left it all behind, to entertain a desire. To travel, forever. To never go home, back to moldering old Europe, still clinging to its bloodlines and history. Back to the same tired faces, the same decaying ideas…the same prejudices…"

She met her eye, coldly, in the dark.

"They say we live in great times. In the 'future', the farscape. But my dear…"

She turned her silvered head back to the being lying broken on the bed, and closed her eyes, seeing her past in perfect clarity.

"Human nature, hasn't changed."

Shepard's dry lips parted, so slightly, as she breathed, for what felt like the first time in years.

Someone, finally, had confirmed what she had felt her whole life. And she listened, every pore of her mind open, as Karin Chawkwas spoke the first real words she had heard since she had awoken naked on a Cerberus operating table.

"Every day a new horizon, every year as different and unpredictable as the last. I have had the luxury of having been…well, everywhere. I've seen the spires of Illium, the snow drifts on Noveria. I've glimpsed in my youth the borealis on the moons of Palaven, and with you, the star-arms closed upon the Citadel. I've seen everything…and yet, not enough."

Her eyes fell, images of a past still clinging to her sifting before her eyes.

"You didn't live through the First Contact War…I did. Why, we still feel the ripples now. I still remember the fear we lived in, fed by the media and our politicians. I still remember the hatred in the streets, and the bigotry, the nationalism, and the racism. After all our people have been through, after all we should have learned from our history, how despicably narrow minded we were…and are."

Shepard's eyes, glazed over, nodded with her.

"Yes. My return to the Citadel…was less than pleasant."

Chakwas's face became as hard as stone, as she looked at the turian once again.

"Yes." she said with an abiding ice Shepard had never heard in her voice before, _"_Fascism is quite the rage these days._"_

Their eyes met, resounding in mutual understanding, and she continued, with light washing through her cold tones.

"Shepard I don't work for Cerberus. I work for you."

Shepard nodded slowly, her intense gaze unbroken, and whispered, "As you've said."

The doctor's eyes gleamed as she bore into her, resolve and belief blistering through.

"My child. I believe you were meant for great things. And so do many, many other people. I know very little about you, but from what I have seen… I would follow you anywhere…And so would he."

Shepard looked, resounding in feeling, as Chakwas tilted her head, her eyes which had seen so much, now seeing straight through her.

"There's so much violence in the world. And I know you were born from it, and into it. But there's a place, in your heart, of no violence…and no bigotry."

Shepard gasped in quiet as her heart seared, awakening.

"The eye of the storm. Where nothing can touch, no fear, and no darkness. And my dear…it is only a secret to you."

Pounding. Her heart, falling out of her chest.

"Don't you see, how we all flock to you? How we all reach out, and follow, wherever you guide us? There is something in you…something that we need. That we all need, and that _only you_ have, and in spite of what you may believe about yourself…it is good…and selfless. Look around you. Just look. All of this, a gamble, for you. The most powerful figures in the Universe know your name, and fear it. I watched Dr. Solus rip out three dozen security nodules from this room alone. Certain players would not take such precautions, if there wasn't something to be careful of."

Shepard eyes gleamed as she looked down at her clothes, to the logos even present there.

"I was there, at your funeral. I saw the people gathered. Dalatrasses and matriarchs, princes, primarchs, presidents...the vanity. The lies."

She shook her silvered head, holding a finger to her temple.

"But the true sight to behold, were the real people. The sick, and the impoverished. Soldiers. Nurses. Secretaries. Quarians on pilgrimage. Young krogans, barely in their first rut. Turians and asari, hanar whispering prayers, volus collecting charity in your name. Every race. Every class, drawn to you. Hundreds of little girls, in particular. All looking up. All looking up to your face on the screen, with wide eyes, in wonder. In belief."

Shepard's head met her hands again, staring down at the floor, but she continued. She had to.

"They played your last interview. If you could only see the way they looked at you. Shepard…you are so much more to us, than you know."

But she snapped, unleashing months of pent up rage that had been gathering from the moment she awoke against her will as nude and weak as a babe in the ruins of a research station governed by the most questionable human interest agency in the galaxy. From the moment she met the Milky Way's most elusive man and knew she was doomed to live in his pocket, to when she boarded the painful ghost of her lost ship, to when she looked at her face for the first time in the mirror and watched the cybernetics glowing just beneath her skin, she questioned for the first time in her life how much of her own body was truly real.

"It's propaganda. It's goddamn propaganda. They're using me Karin, under the guise of good deeds. The Illusive Man, Udina, the media - even the goddamned Alliance. _Those motherfuckers._ I heard the stories, the engineers told me in detail. All of them -liars. P_rofiteers._ They betrayed me – they wouldn't even tell the truth after I gave my life for them – _the geth? The goddamned geth?_ Thousands died for that battle - _Kaiden- civilians- Nihlus_ - to slay _that thing_ – and what did they do? What was the first thing they did? Lied, to everyone – because what really happened didn't fit in nicely with their narrow little view of what is politically appropriate! And then, _and then_ used _my fucking image_ for goddamned recruiting vids!?…_Where the hell is the honor? This...this isn't what I signed up for when I was a recruit."_

Her eyes, rimmed in hateful tears, met the doctors, and she spoke in a pierced whisper,

"Let me tell you a secret."

They narrowed, and said the words she had always thought, but never in thirty-two years let touch her lips.

"I…_hate our kind_."

Those cold grey lenses burning yet further, unyielding.

"_I really do."_

Silence rang in the quiet room. Chakwas crossed her arms, and thought.

"No." She said softly, after a long moment. "You don't."

Shepard laughed bitterly, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Oh, yes. I do. I have my whole life, since I was old enough to see it. And I've seen enough now to know _exactly_ how I feel."

But the doctor continued, her voice firm and low.

"A while back, I heard something on the telly. An interview."

Shepard still looked bitterly at the ground.

"An interview of a remarkable young woman. Who spoke quite fondly of turians in particular."

Shepard glared at Chakwas, daring her to continue, but the elder woman was completely unafraid, and spoke on confidently, with raised eyebrows.

"And it struck me, that all the things this woman respected of them and their culture..."

Karin paused, staring Shepard down.

"...Were perhaps the things she felt were so sorely missing from our own."

She slipped her eyes away, avoiding Shepard's fiery gaze, to calmly look at her fingernails.

"As I recall, this impeccably strong young lady also mentioned something about the easiest thing in the universe being to live in fear and hate of what one does not understand."

She looked at her, directly in the eye.

"You don't hate people. You simply do not understand the actions of the small and greedy because you cannot relate to selfishness and narcissism of that magnitude. You, Shepard, are cut from a different cloth."

"Karin, you have no idea. You have no idea how selfish I can –"

But she cut her off, continuing.

"I realized this, after reading your obituary, and after speaking at great lengths to an old friend, who knew you from your first and rather interesting day, as he tells it, as a recruit…I never knew you were an orphan."

Her eyes met the younger woman's with profound empathy, and she spoke with great conviction.

"I cannot imagine the things you been through. Family is one of those…curious things...which we tend to take for granted."

Her words punctured Shepard's anger, and it deflated, her shoulders sinking, as she listened to the doctor speak.

"I never before realized, but I recently wrapped my head around it. You treat us all like family."

The truth made Shepard's heart sink deep into her chest.

"All those little gestures you did while you were commander of our first Normandy. Wrex's armor, books for Ashley, favors for Garrus, Liara and Tali, eggs for the crew, special treatments for Kaidan's headaches paid for out of your own pocket, and a dozen others. You sought our approval. You…cared…deeply, of what we all thought of you. We were just strangers to you, but you cared."

Shepard sank back in her chair, hiding her face behind her hand. Chakwas shook her head in quiet amazement.

"And I always wondered why, why you, our commander, N-bloody-seven; who never even had to - or needed to seek our favor or approval for anything on this ship – would come down to eat with us, to talk to us, and to get to know us personally. I have never had that sort relationship on any craft before in my life. And it wasn't just lip service – Shepard, you actually listened. I couldn't believe it. And even, as you say you hate humans so much, my dear, you are even doing this even now. The brandy you brought me, spices for Gardner, the couplings for your young friends below decks." She still shook her head, smiling. "That doesn't look like hate to me. If it was, you wouldn't give a damn about all those missing colonists whom you've never even met, but there you are every night, hunched over in the CIC, trying to get to the bottom of it."

Shepard, oddly, was so embarrassed she was laughing. Chawkas shifted her weight, and laughed a bit as well. And Shepard thought she could hear, if she wasn't completely insane, the Englishwoman's accent slipping into something far less proper; looser, almost grittier, and definitely more colloquial.

"I think you're a bit bipolar, actually. It's damn comedic, considering that lovely speech you gave on black and white thinking. It's like, on one hand you are this paragon of altruism, and on the other, my dear, you can be quite the mad renegade. Child," she laughed, "Have you ever considered that you are terribly unhappy not for the reason you may believe, but because you're in sixes and sevens about who you even are?"

Shepard, exhausted, was still laughing. "Chakwas…You know…'Shepard' isn't even my real name."

"Oh stop, of course it is. It may not be the one your parents left you, but what does it matter? It is now. Look at him," she said, nodding her head to Garrus, "So who is he really? Garrus, or Archangel? I think you know. You realize, of course, that you two are exactly same?"

Shepard pushed her hair back, and looked in dreamy disbelief at Chakwas, smirking, saying only, "No."

"So, I never saw it before, but I think enough time alone with my brandy has caused some of these old neurons to function properly. You," she said with clear eyes, gesturing casually at her,

"Say you hate humans. He," she tilted her head to Garrus, "…is eh, not exactly the model turian. And he knows it. And you know it. And we all know it. _Shepard. You're both bloody misfits_."

Shepard snorted, trying not to laugh so much as to wake Garrus.

"Please, I'm such a poster child they actually used me for posters. No royalties for my charities, I might add."

"Oh sure, you like to pretend you're just 'Plain Jane Shepard', girl next door from Earth. Right. Oh, nothing special here, oh don't mind me, just decided to wake up one day and fly the bloody Mako through an alien transport beam, straight into the Citadel, to talk a madman into doing the right thing and stepping down with a bullet, eh, just in time for tea with Cthulu himself. _Please._ What utter horseshit."

Shepard blinked, not quite believing what she was hearing.

"You honestly think, if there wasn't something absolutely remarkable about you - that every damned crime syndicate in the Universe would be out there fishing for your corpse as trophy? That Joker, and I shouldn't even be telling you this, gave up bloody flying after your death from his survivor's guilt – and he jumped – _jumped –_ and for him that's no small feat - bless him, at the chance to serve under you again when the call came to us that Cerberus had you, and that you were still alive?"

She turned her head to the sleeping turian, who looked almost peaceful in spite of his injuries.

"You think it was a coincidence, that he lost his mind after you were gone? Here's a secret, my girl. 'Course he did. We all did. Because like a wise space-commander once said, there's no damned honor anymore. And everybody who can't be bought knows it. And that's why I left Europe – and that's why I'll never set foot upon a colony, and that's why I'll brave even Cerberus's unadulterated bullshit just to serve Commander Shepard another day."

Chakwas crossed the room and picked up Shepard's codex, turned around, and placed it in her hand; giving her a direct look that she did not break, as she spoke directly from her heart.

"So, I'm frankly tired of standing here, watching a strong woman cry over things better left in the past. Thus, me to you, old woman to young – trust your damn self, mind the gap, and carry on. Shepard, he's turian, and from how I've heard you speak, you know turians. You know damned well that you can't take responsibility for his decisions – that he wouldn't let you. You know that he will own them, no matter how bad they were. And I know, that the person in that bed would follow you to hell if you asked, and that there isn't a silly row or injury in the galaxy that's going to come between two people who were given a second chance to storm the skies together again."

And she tossed her head proudly back, checked her watch, took her codex, and strode to the door, but then turned back at the last minute, and eyed Shepard sharply.

"Oh, and one more thing. Don't let anybody condescend you for liking aliens. If the bloody men can fancy asari without anybody losing their damn hat – _and they're not even technically female_ – then fuck all and cheers."

And she stormed out of the clinic, with Shepard staring with her mouth slightly open, wishing she had learned to talk to her sooner.

* * *

Author's Note:

If you ever get close to a human  
and human behaviour  
be ready to get confused

there's definitely no logic  
to human behaviour  
but yet so irresistible

there is no map  
to human behaviour

they're terribly moody  
then all of a sudden turn happy  
but, oh, to get involved in the exchange  
of human emotions is ever so satisfying

there's no map and  
a compass  
wouldn't help at all

human behaviour

- Human Behavior, Bjork


	23. The Salvaged

Chapter 23: The Salvaged

Alien eyes slowly opened to a room lit brighter than any he had glimpsed in two years.

His sight was fogged over, bleary and unfocused. Prone, he strained to peer into the shiftless outlines of the world around him, as if seeing for the first time. He looked at the ceiling with its clean light bars which arced into the ship's curved walls paneled; everything forged from high impact alloy, diamond hard and shining. His eyelids burned as a form approached him.

A pleasant and familiar voice met his muffled ears, as a soft human hand reached out to place a palm across his plates.

"Good morning dear. How do you feel?"

The alien's tired eyes closed at her touch, his mind still weak from the pain medication flowing through his veins. He asked gently,

"…Karin?"

"Yes."

He could feel her smiling. His eyes closed tighter. He remembered the times as a child he used to sleep in those precious extra ten minutes before his mother would drag him out of bed to leave for his morning classes, before the Palevenian sun even touched the platinum horizon outside his window. He could still recall the way the glass would be transparent in the early morning hours to let in the moons in as he dressed, before it went opaque to shut out the daily radiation as the sun rose in the sky.

He turned, comforted, and curled up on his side in almost the fetal position. He softly asked,

"Where am I?"

She laughed sweetly, replying "The Normandy, I'm afraid. You're in for quite the surprise."

His eyes smiled, still closed, as he slipped back off to sleep.

"I've died."

That gentle laughter again, filtering in amidst the dreams sweeping across the far planes of his mind.

"No, Garrus. You are quite alive."

* * *

Two hours later, the scent of something beautiful touched his face from the bedside table, and his eyes opened again. Through still heavy lids, he blinked, and discerned the vague outline of an enormous thermos of steaming hot Earl Grey sitting within arms distance. Instantly intrigued, he lifted his arm, but it felt terribly heavy as if weighed down by wet wool. He tried again, with more success, but he was still unsure of himself. And so slowly, he turned his crested head back, looked around the room to ensure that he was alone, and then tried to lift himself. The sheets fell away from him, he was nude, but he wasn't in a position to really care. He looked around the room, in quiet amazement, seeing it clearly for the first time.

The kick of gravity dampeners, the whir of machines, he turned his head and listened. His finely sensitive turian sense of hearing zeroed in on the distinct vibrations of the massive drive core pulsing on somewhere beneath. His blue eyes flicked up as his senses came alive, and he heard human voices through the walls, snippets of conversation lagging through his cranially implanted translator now buzzing back to life. He turned his head again, pointing his ear towards the footsteps. He tilted his silvered head back the other way and concentrated – the techno beat of a fast paced salarian pulse, and the metronomic diastole and systole of a human heart within a thirty foot radius.

Garrus Vakarian was awake.

Memories flooded back mercilessly. Blue skin. Red soles. A phantom limb. A violet eye milked over. Bodies. The ocular of a well worn scope. Blue Suns – Blood Pack – Eclipse. Two strangers and a helmet falling – grey eyes. Red hair. Dodging – soaring – a graceful drell. A cold brunette. Enemies swarming like insects. Roaring, roaring, blinding light. Falling to a hard metal floor. Hands on him – palms on his face.

Lips. Floating. And nothing.

Slowly, he touched the right side of his face, and felt something unfamiliar there.

Ridges, tributaries were there where they shouldn't have been. Concentrating, he followed the unknown geometry to his mouth and felt the flesh peeled back – singeing – pain. Shocked, his hand snapped back.

He looked around, nothing was reflective or solid enough to warrant a reflection. His eye hit the tea, and he snatched for it, threatening to spill it on himself. He held it in his hands until the water sat still, and he glanced across the surface.

He saw someone he didn't quite recognize looking back. He stared.

At that moment, Karen Chakwas approached him with a smile on her kind face that temporarily relieved him of darker thoughts.

"Garrus." She said, opening her palms to him, and he couldn't help but feel cheer rushing through him as he smiled into her familiar eyes.

"Karin – good to see you. Was this your idea?" he asked, raising his still unsipped thermos a hair.

"Yes," she said merrily, unfolding her specialized medical omnitool, sliding her fingers through his charts, watching him with her pleasant glance.

"I thought you could use an incentive. Something from England. Always gets me up in the morning. Sans my splash of gin, of course."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, raising the simmering alien vapors to his face and letting them kiss his nose, but then he asked in hesitation, "...Can I drink this?"

"Well, it probably does not enough have enough residual protein to illicit a strong reaction, but actually, I discovered something rather interesting about your physiology in running your diagnostics. Did anyone ever tell you that you are actually levo-adverse negative?"

He blinked, looking at her in confusion, which slowly became surprise.

"…No...Really?"

"Yes – I discovered it after the commander performed resuscitation on you – you were in quite a state of shock – and we discovered an utter lack of an inflammatory response in the affected area."

He watched her – he could swear she was smirking, ever so slightly, with some sparkling secret.

"It's somewhat rare, actually." She pressed, still with that curious turn to her lips, "Only about 12 percent of Turians express the gene for the pancreatic enzyme which catalyzes the absorption of L-proteins into harmless subsidiaries without eliciting acute response anaphylaxis - you do remember the principles behind molecular chirality in metabolic processes, correct?"

He was sure to keep his facial plates completely still, as he had spent most of his education in biochemistry clandestinely studying firearms.

"Ha ha, brilliant. You're fine. I would only experiment with liquids for now, however, as any nutrition present in solids will still not likely be absorbed with equivalent efficiency to dextro-based foodstuffs, and is likely to pass through you largely undigested. In short, enjoy the tea. I could make it with milk, if you'd like."

He stared into his cup, "I don't know...will I even be able to taste it?"

She shrugged, "I don't know. Well, our bovine milk is largely fat, protein and lactose – I suspect you shouldn't have a problem with tasting most left handed sugars – but," she said looking at his chest, and thinking, "I don't imagine Turians breast feed, so I suspect you would be lacking in lactase, potentially causing you to be terribly lactose intolerant. Well... perhaps not."

He touched the tea to his mouth, and tried to drink it, but the whole right side of his face felt like fire as soon as the hot liquid hit his mouth.

"Damn, does that hurt."

But she was still looking at him, thinking hard.

"I can't believe no one ever told you, I know how stringent the turian hierarchy is about keeping current medical records – no mentioned to you that you were levo-neutral, your whole life?"

He looked at her, shaking his head, still trying to get the tea down.

She furrowed her brow, "Ah, oh well." She said pleasantly, hiding her disappointment in the understated bias that still clung to the elders in their society, "They probably didn't want you getting all close with us icky humans anyway."

He smirked, drinking.

"I think that notion is out the airlock."

Chakwas nodded, taking his thermos and gesturing for him to stand, which he did with ease, the effects of the analgesics having faded. At six foot five, 1.956 meters, (and .812 nano Standard-Galactic-Length-Units), he towered over her. Of only average height for his species, he still had to bend down his spike-swept head for the small human to scan him without overextending.

"So…where is my armor? This room is...kind of cold."

She laughed, buzzing her omnitool over his thoracic cavity, watching his heart, "Calm down, Garrus. I understand the basic principles of thermodynamic retention. And," she said playfully, "You're hardly the first naked alien I've seen."

He looked sheepishly away. She looked him directly in the eye and said with an absolute poker face, "Fornax is very informative, dear."

His laugh became a moan of pain as the whole right side of his face lit up in heat again, "Ahhh, damn. When will this end?"

"Well, your bandages will have stay on for about another four weeks for the nano-tech – "

But at that exact moment, Mordin Solus burst through the door in a caffeinated frenzy, throwing his hands up theatrically and shouting upon seeing the shocked and naked turian,

"PATIENT! Awake! Favorable – dermatological-pain-threshold-testing less fun when unconscious!"

Chakwas, horrified, literally threw her hands up to shield Garrus from Mordin's soaring needle and shouted, "Unnecessary! Already confirmed, doctor!"

Mordin looked downtrodden. "Oh," he said, appearing as dejected as a kicked puppy, his syringe falling depressedly, "Waiting all week for that. Ah well. Trust your opinion, Karin."

He turned his gleaming, manic eye on Garrus, who stared back defensively. Chakwas's hand met her temple, massaging it patiently.

"Garrus Vakarian, meet Dr. Mordin Solus. He is our Chief Scientific-"

"PLEASED TO MEET YOU!" He said, grabbing Garrus's hand and shaking it wildly, "The famous Archangel! Curious! Would have thought -"

He looked over the Turian, who shifted his very confused gaze to Chakwas who was shaking her head in dismay.

"- Salarian! Very smart! Unusual for turian! Well, er, comparatively of course."

"…Thanks?"

But he interrupted again.

"Ripper – Salarian – about this high – you knew him?"

Garrus's eyes flashed in memory, and he answered, feeling as slow as an Elcor compared to the neurotic savant already flitting about the clinic in a fury, collecting readings from this and that.

"Actually yes. You…share a certain resemblance."

"COUSINS! Loved him dearly – bit of a pyro. Oh well. Knew what he was doing…Most of time. Went through STG training together."

Garrus looked at him curiously, tilting his head in thought, "You were STG?"

Mordin smiled wide baring his pointy yellow teeth "Of course! Miss those days. Heard of your exploits – admit, bit jealous. Capped a few Blood Pack here and there for personal amusement, but..."

He instantly stopped what he was doing and gazed dreamily into nothing.

"Not the same. Never the same...Ahhhh youth."

They stared at him, Chakwas muttering under her breath. A moment later he snapped his fingers and started zooming around the room again. Garrus caught Chakwas's eye out of the corner of his and asked with trepidation,

"Can I leave now?"

Chakwas nodded, her temple still in her fingers, and motioned to a UV disinfection table across the room where his armor lay singed and gleaming in its many pieces, aside his relatively worn out under clothes, neatly folded beneath his visor - blessedly unharmed.

He crossed the space and began to reassemble himself as Chakwas watched Mordin flit about, and said, "That armor is in terrible disrepair. It's…functional; Mordin was kind enough to gloss it over and add a few upgrades –"

"Easy fix!" jeered Mordin, disinfecting his hands like a fiend. Chakwas rolled her eyes, continuing,

"But we should really get a requisition order for you."

Garrus considered, thinking deeply as he turned the magnetic latches on his bowed chest plate, lighter than it looked.

"No. I'll keep it."

Chakwas watched him, a touch of concern fleeting across her blue eyes, as he slid on his visor, turned away from her, already suited.

"Alright." She said, watching him turn around.

The black veins of scars and burns fanned in tendrils over every part of him; he looked precisely terrifying. She stared at him, barely recognizing the Garrus she used to know beneath the haunted looking armor, the dark lines crossing his ruined face, spread thin and exposing the still raw muscle just beneath.

"What? Is it…bad?"

"Nothing. Er, No. I'll send further considerations to your terminal, you'll want to blend your food until the teeth on your right sight come back in. Yeoman Kelly Chambers is waiting outside for your onboarding orientation."

"Onboarding orientation?"

Chakwas shook her head slowly, "Yes, this is not a military vessel. You'll soon see Cerberus operates more like a corporation than anything else. "

Garrus looked sickened, uttering a disapproving click from his upper palate.

The doctor nodded in agreement, but tilted her head. "I know, but it's not all awful. We have a bar now."

He caught her eye and she recognized the smirk in his plates. She smiled warmly, and he watched the fine lines crinkle pleasantly around her wise eyes. It was comforting to see a familiar face on such a patently Cerberus vessel.

A few minutes later, Garrus stumbled still somewhat disoriented out of the brightly lit med clinic. He had to work to adjust his eyes to an unnervingly familiar sight, so well remembered and yet just different to send a chill sweeping across his skin.

The crew quarters.

Memories took him in a powerful tide as his eyes fell upon about a half dozen human crew members seated and chatting over a late breakfast in the central open-air mess, seemingly in some sort of argument with a severe looking mess sergeant, who was angrily brandishing a wire whisk still wet with a bit of egg.

"Hello Mr. Vakarian."

He turned, and his eyes met the emerald lenses of a small human female standing at attention to his left. She had side swept copper colored hair that caught his eye for a moment, and wide curious eyes. Dressed in the standard Cerberus greys as the crew seated to their right, she looked up at him with almost child-like wonder, and said calmly in spite of his befuddlement,

"My name is Yeoman Kelly Chambers, and I would like to welcome you to the Normandy SR-2. Wow, you're tall."

He blinked blankly at her as she gazed at him, wondering if she knew she had said that out loud.

"Well…yes."

She smiled warmly and shook her head, offering her hand to shake his, and he took it, feeling awkward.

"Sorry," she replied lightly, still gazing at him, "I haven't been around turians much. I never realized the height difference until now."

To his quiet surprise, she raised his hand gently and surveyed it very closely. She curiously touched her soft index fingertip to the end of his talon. He watched her eyes scan his hand, studying it with academic precision.

"Mmm," she remarked thoughtfully, giving him back his hand as she looked back up to him with those curious wide eyes, "Those won't do."

"And why not?" He asked, eying her just as curiously.

She smiled again, and crossed her arms, still staring at him, from his frill, to his plated forehead, down to every ridge of his burned face. He got the feeling she was very observant, and missed little.

"Well, Mr. Vakarian –

"Garrus."

"Ok, Garrus." She said pleasantly, as he could see her mentally taking note to remember to call him by his first name, "As you may have heard this is a Cerberus operated private vessel. This ship is modeled after the original SSV Normandy SR-1 on which you served, but I fear as our engineers operated with a purely human crew in mind. I suspect that you will find some ergonomic hurtles due to your,"

She smiled a bit shyly, looking embarrassed.

"Exotic phylogeny."

He nodded, figuring as much. The first Normandy had been designed by a human and turian joint effort, so there was definite structural cross over as the crew was projected to be at least partially blended, though with the death of Nihlus those plans never came to fruition.

"You guys have those awful flat human holo-touch screen keyboards, don't you?" he asked in dismay.

She nodded, pursing her lips, "Yes, sir. Apologies. You can borrow my nail clippers until we can get a requisition order for a raised six-digit keyboard for you."

He looked at her with profound gratitude. "That's very thoughtful. Now. Where are the guns on this thing?"

She nodded, smiling again, and she led him past the rowdy argument between the mess chief and the crew towards the back of the hall, as he walked along with her, taking in all the uncanny details.

"Yes, the commander mentioned that the Gunnery Control Station in the Main Battery would be of great interest to you. I hear you're quite the 'gun nut'. The Armory is located on the second deck, along with CIC and Research and Tech Labs, where Dr. Solus resides. The Armory is overseen by Armory Chief Jacob Taylor. He's very nice, and asked to meet you when you the time. He has put together a customized weapons kit for you based upon your expertise and skill set. It's waiting for you there, when you're ready to have a look."

The ship, he noticed, was intensely beautiful. She caught his wandering eye, and smiled mysteriously.

"The commander also arranged for a discretionary personal upgrade budget in your name. I don't know how much it is, but I've heard jealous rumors that it's handsome."

His plates raised. Her eyes sparkled, as if she knew something he didn't.

"She said it was your sign on bonus. You've got catalogs from all the major weapons manufacturers waiting in your terminal, and a few under her name in Spectre-exclusive gear."

He stared. It was pretty hard to feel like shit when that was the first thing you heard after waking up after a week in a narcotic-induced coma.

He looked to Kelly, who avoided his glance coquettishly. She was being so polite and attentive that he couldn't help but like her, in spite of the unnerving Cerberus logo flashing from her arm as they walked down a long red corridor lined with emergency cryo cells. He watched as she swiped the door, opening its crimson depths to him.

"Oh, nice." He said luxuriantly, instantly magnetized to the inner workings of the weaponry system, almost abandoning her at the door as he couldn't help but wandering over to gaze at its mechanical complexity.

"Anti-missile GARDIAN point defense lasers, javelin disruptors…" he trailed off, his mind instantly falling back into his old work habits, stopping for a moment to flip through the cumbersome human holo-displays for in the weapons schematics.

"Kelly, what is our main objective?" he asked as his eyes fell, quietly bothered that no one had stopped once to even tell him. From the doorway, she repeated what sounded like a very carefully memorized speech.

"The Normandy SR2 is the operational headquarters of the Cerberus proprietary Lazarus Cell, lead by Executive Officer Miranda Lawson and Commanding Officer Jane Shepard. We are currently investigating the disappearance of an unspecified number of human colonists from the Terminus Systems. That is all that I am liberty to discuss at this time. Any further questions should be directed to-"

Before he could stop himself, something and someone else took over, and his entire character changed.

"Where is she?" He said in that specific way he had developed of asking questions without really asking, eying her from over his shoulder with a cold gleam.

He watched Kelly swallow, knowing she could see the glow in the lenses in the back of his eyes.

"C-Commander Shepard is planet-side, sir."

He continued to stare from the red-tinged dark.

"Where are we."

He could see the sweat beads on her scalp. Archangel had taught him well.

"Curent-tly, we are in orbit over Alchera in the Amada System in the...Omega Nebula."

He released his piercing gaze from her, starting to feel guilty, and listened, his head turned back away from her. He heard her exhale, and it made him wonder how changed his face really was.

"We received notification from the Alliance that crash site for the Normandy SR-1 has been identified."

He looked back at her, listening intensely. She met his eye, her glance unwavering, and she said in almost a whisper as he looked fiercely into her.

"The…commander insisted on going alone."

For a reason he could not define he was suddenly filled with dread. In an instant he felt his pulse sicken to a rapid pace. Kelly saw the dark look in his eyes, and she pressed on, desperate to reassure him.

"She…she watched over you for seven days…"

The number struck him like a stone.

"Seven days?" he repeated quietly.

"Yes. You…were not well…when we extracted you from Omega…The commander…"

She fidgeted, not knowing if she should tell him, and closed her eyes as her lips moved, fearing a potential reprise.

"…Never left you until early this morning. I saw her off in the transport, after she took her coffee…She said she needed some time alone..."

The thought of Shepard wandering the empty snow drifts of that dead planet amidst the peeled back pieces of her destroyed ship - completely unguarded and exposed - filled him an anxiety so strong it gripped his heart, threatening to crush it to a close.

"Kelly?" he asked low, icy tones with very thinly worn patience, "Forgive me. But whose idea was it to have her go to the crash site of the ship where she lost her life and her crew completely by herself?"

But to his deep surprise, Kelly raised her eyebrows at him, and looked back sternly.

"Forgive me Garrus, but have you ever tried telling Commander Shepard what to do? We take what she says very seriously on this ship. I suggest you do the same."

They stared at each other.

Silence.

Her omnitool buzzed, and she broke her tensed gaze from him and glanced down. "Oh," she said, almost nonchalantly, "Actually, she's back. " Her full brows furrowed, "Odd. She's in the…hangar? Uh-Oh, Officer Lawson's there too...this doesn't look good. I'd better get going…"

"I'd like to come."

She glanced at him, considering.

"Fine. No arguing."

"No promises."

* * *

Deep in the bowels of the ship in the darkly lit hangar, Garrus heard the reverberations of Miranda Lawson's angry shrieks amidst almost hysterical laughter from a voice he missed so deeply it hurt.

"You've got to be completely-out-of-your-damned-mind!-"

"I told you Miranda – stop you're killing me – I told you, you should have left me dead!"

Miranda was breathing heavily, graceful fists balled in a rare loss of composure, furiously glaring at Shepard who was calmly taping off a massive block of hangar space, as best as she could in seizures of hilarity, the tape lines terribly uneven as a result.

"THERE IS NO WAY I AM LETTING YOU BRING UP THAT GODDAMNED HUNK OF DECOMMISSIONED – "

Shepard was laughing so hard she actually fell over onto her armored ass, no sound escaping her at all as Miranda let out a string of English swears so foul Yeoman Kelly's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hair, and Garrus considered for a fraction of second that he may actually, one day, grow to like Miranda.

Eventually. Maybe.

"Whoa. Whoa, Miranda, haven't you heard? Didn't The Illusive Man tell you?" said Shepard, raising her hand, laughing so hard she was crying as Miranda vibrated pure hatred, towering over her like a harpy. Shepard mastered control over her features, forcing herself up to sit still and in deadpan, she tried to speak with absolute seriousness but her convulsing features gave her away as she snickered, delighting in tormenting her murderous XO.

"The M35 Mako is a precision, performance vehicle unmatched in its tactical refinement – "

"SHEPARD I SWEAR TO GOD-"

"- crafted from the hand of Arashu herself, to go raging into battle – "

"NO! NO! NO!"

"boldy– where no infantry deployment vehicle has ever gone before."

"WE HAVE A DEPLOYMENT VESSEL!"

"But Miranda," she said in dramatic hushed tones, her clear eyes gleaming in malicious sarcasm at the look of sheer and utter hatred that destroyed Miranda's lovely features.

"It was just sitting there, perfectly intact, all lonely and sad on that planet, looking down at me with its hurt little turrets…It's an orphan..."

Miranda at that point, was just shaking her head, arms crossed, looking up at the ceiling, cursing God, repeating,

"You're mad, you're absolutely mad…"

Shepard nodded seriously, dutifully brushing grime off of the pile of dog tags gathered in the hollow of a very battered looking helmet upturned beside her,

"Yes."

With no hint of humor, she looked up fiercely to Miranda, who looked down just as fiercely back.

"I want a salvage extraction team assembled and ready for drop by the end of the day. EDI," she called,

A cool, pleasant artificial female voice rang out from the ship itself.

"Yes, Shepard."

"Will an M35 Mako fall within the load limit of our magnetic salvage arm?"

"Yes, Shepard. However, scans indicate that the Mako is adhered to the Alchera's surface by its chassis with at least 27.32512 percent of its baseline weight in water-based ice. The ground extraction team may be assisted in liberating the vehicle by the use of the thermal flux-cored arc welders available in Engineering."

Shepard smiled like it was her birthday as Miranda seethed before her.

"A beautiful idea EDI, thank you."

"You're welcome Shepard."

Miranda raised her finger threateningly and directed it straight at Shepard, seated with her elbows on her knees, beaming, on the floor.

"This better not get in the way of the project. I mean it. No more taking random days off to go play by yourself and abandon me with these damned miscreants you keep collecting – we have a job to do and don't you dare forget it."

And with that Miranda whirled around, and to her unimaginable fury, saw Garrus standing off behind her, with Kelly practically cowering behind him.

"Oh look," said Miranda bitterly as she swept past them on the way to the exit, her glossy lip curling in a dissatisfied sneer, looking Garrus in the eye as she passed him.

"Another piece of sentimental wreckage."

And with that, she was gone, leaving them all staring at the door.

After a long moment they heard Shepard sigh as she climbed to her feet, tucking the helmet with the dog tags beneath her elbow. Garrus looked at Shepard, and she stared back, her eyes fixed on the right side of his face.

"Kelly. "

Their eyes locked.

"Leave us."

The turian and the woman looked at each other as their yeoman ducked out of the room as quietly as she could. Grey eyes fixed in his and simply stared. The ship faded away from them to nothing. Like a child, he walked to her slowly to where she stood in light that shone so hard upon her that it blinded. With every step her eyes grew wider. He watched her hands begin to shake, her knees began to tremble. Once within arm's distance, she threw the helmet on the floor. It clattered to the ground.

They moved at the exact same moment – so fast, in resounding feeling, burning like a sun, he moved to her and she moved to him – binary stars that had finally, irrevocably collided. Every molecule, every particle of mass, all the magnetism that held them to their forms, together; one. They fell into everything they never had, and in that moment, all the time that had passed between them collapsed.

When she looked into his eyes, he saw the tears in her, but they did not fall. And she tried to speak, no words came out; trembling, lips moving weakly, but nothing. There were no words. No words at all.

He just breathed and held her, pushing her into him, holding her shivering, warm, silken head beneath his still sore mandible, and he closed his eyes as she gripped him so tight he thought he could die. He didn't care.

He felt her hands, fingers ravenous and tearing, the magnetic locks of his armor flying apart as she tore it off, a maelstrom of movement and tears. He watched helplessly, his heart crushing as she ripped his burned and tattered chestplate off and threw it viciously on the floor, where it clattered torn and broken, beside the destroyed and tattered shell of an N7 helmet filled with the dog tags of the dead. Her crew and his. Gone like smoke.

Unable to stand they fell to their knees, and he held her weeping bitterly onto the brutal warmth of him, past that plate of armor that he always wore, that always kept her from his skin. Her tears bled through to him, her face pressed hard against his bowed sternum, just to hear his heart. She wept to hear it was really there. It was.

He pulled her face away, holding it in his hands. She looked up at him, millimeters away; feeling her breath warm upon him as he had one night, a lifetime ago. A failed night that happened before its time.

Within his eyes she saw the ghost of a certain Earthen sky, and in her, past the high steel walls, past the flames that burned with their reinforcements so high, lived the fair wide plains of Palaven. He desired, right then, more than anything he ever wanted to kiss her, but he didn't know how. Encircled in a line of tape in an empty room, in the outline of the Mako all he could do was hold her.

"Don't you ever, ever-"

His hands around her face, her eyes blistering.

"Never…never… again…"

He breathed. She touched his face from behind a veil of tears. She put her lips to his scar, his eyes closed at the feeling as she whispered, soft against his ruptured flesh,

"I'm going to kill to who did this to you..."

He pulled her closer, feeling her pushed so hard against him, her hands gripping. It hurt. It nourished. A velvet cheek to his, his fingers slipping through her hair.

"No..."

His eyes, the distance, the walls melting away to rust, to death, to Omega.

"I will."

He pressed his forehead to hers, and didn't let go.

He heard her whisper.

_Never, never again._

* * *

Touched  
You say that I am too  
So much of what you say is true  
I'll never find someone quite like you  
Again  
I'll never find someone quite like you  
Like you

The razors and the dying roses plead  
I don't leave you alone  
The demi-gods and hungry ghosts of God  
God knows I'm not at home

I'll never find someone quite like you  
Again  
I'll never find someone quite like you  
Again

I, I looked into your eyes and saw  
A world that does not exist  
I looked into your eyes and saw  
A world I wish I was in

I'll never find someone quite as touched  
As you  
I'll never love someone quite the way that I  
Loved you

-Touched, Vast


	24. The Scarred

Chapter 23: The Scarred

"_Goddamnit you're too fast!"_

"_Excuses. Focus."_

Panting far past exhaustion and dripping in sweat, Jane Shepard caught her breath. She had to stop to hush her screaming muscles, to walk away from him, her teacher and tonight, her tormentor. Her hands clasped her hips as she took a few labored steps; head down, hair in dark red stalactites, obsessing over the minutiae comprising the hundreds of combinations of moves she had tried on him, and subsequently, entirely, unarguably - failed. She turned her eyes over her tired shoulder and gave Thane Krios a fatally impatient look, as he tossed his shirt to the floor in the industrial dark of the hangar, and smirked at her in his soft, satisfied way; beneath his glistening black eyes.

No one.

No one moved like him.

Her expression narrowed with something that veered dangerously close to hatred, her lungs still heaving.

Two hours into sparring, and he had only just then broken a sweat.

"You put that back on, you bastard. I know what contact with a Drell can do to the Human body."

Pacing without looking at her, elongating his neck with its black striations, still with his haughty smirk he replied silkily, avoiding her lasered eye as he adjusted the gloves still sheathed over his hands.

"What does it matter?"

That brutal smile on his lips.

She was distracted tonight.

Sloppy.

"You have not struck me yet."

Her eyes narrowed into vicious slits. Spitting out an exhale, her fists fell back to her sides as rage welled back into her, rushing her muscles and veins with enmity as she glared at his deliberate swagger in front of her, just within arms distance.

Meeting her flaming eye in his.

Smirking.

Taunting her, because he knew he could; her skill respectable in its practicality, but nothing compared to his unmatched expertise. She was all raw talent and feist, whereas he was a master of unmatched prowess. Trained as she was through the military, she worried that her hand to hand had gone frail from years behind her sights, at least at first, before she grown to mistrust her own body. When she lay awake at night energized by the thousands of tasks and obligations of a universe that hadn't missed a beat in its propensity for insidiousness, she would look at her own skin and try to see where the real ended and the artificial began.

It was a line she couldn't see.

She still could not shake the haunting that crept in her every time she looked in the mirror and saw someone who looked just like her looking back, someone that should be able to trust, herself, of all people.

But she didn't.

Not at all.

And it chilled her to her hidden core.

An orange glow, just beneath her face. Hair, lips, eyes, skin. Muscle and bone, it was all there – but just a little different. Just that little bit stranger, as if she were touching something else that wasn't hers. The unfamiliar.

The first thing she noticed were her breasts one day while changing. She could swear they were fuller - and it bothered her deeply. She stripped off everything and looked into the mirror to see something far too perfect looking back.

Her hair had changed; the strands more silken, the color more vibrant. Her skin was somehow poreless, her cheeks glowed with a soft pink flush that she had never had before, just above the orange glowing rivers that disappeared more and more by the day. Nails, glassy and oval. Lips soft and coral. Her birthmarks, moles, and beauty marks - gone. The white scars that lined her chest, knees and spine were wiped as clean as snow. The flesh now miraculously perfect and peach – where the hell were her freckles? Where were lines, the cuts and burns? Just missing – gone; the flesh perfect and creamy and far too fresh, and at it all she stared, aghast.

How much was real?

Would one day, by the press of some button on a glossy panel or an order from unseen lips still slipped around a cigarette, would her own body would turn against her will? Each scar, each mark and scratch was a memory earned, a piece of her own life; fought hard and bargained for. A life which she had wrestled out of the jaws of fate and fought with all her blood for. A life remembered, with every touch of the finger and glance of the eye.

There was a memory for every scar that Cerberus had stolen.

She turned her shoulder blade to the mirror, where in a den of vipers she had inked her first tattoo, and where nearly ten years later the acid to remove it had warped and pitted the skin. Her shaking eyes searched, it was now as smooth as cream and it filled her with abiding fear.

The woman named simply Jane looked into the mirror, at the body more perfect than was natural, a body that wasn't hers, that didn't suit her - and she thought with a deeply uneasy feeling in her empty gut, of the pristine and flawless face of Miranda Lawson.

Who better to create the perfect Jane Shepard, or rather, the perfect copy - than the most perfect of copies. The woman who was perfection incarnate in all its falsehood, deception, and lies.

She knew the Miranda she spoke to on a daily basis, who coolly met her eyes and looked down her nose, who tossed her gleaming hair, and raised her arched and gorgeous eyebrow - was not the first. She who was the end, and the ends to a mean, of a very long and vain progeny of a man who like so many others, valued power over life. And she wondered deep in the back of her mind if there was room full of herself somewhere, hidden in the dark.

Floating in stasis, just like the Krogan, before she had unleashed him with a smile.

If Cerberus was going to take from her without asking, well, she was going to have some fun.

The woman named Shepard looked into the mirror at the person looking back, seeing for a strange moment Miranda's black hair over her own. She realized in the dark of her cabin that that they were both the porcelain playthings of very powerful and conceited men.

_Am I nothing but a fantasy? _

_Am I just…a name?_

She had asked alone, to no one. In the quiet of a room that wasn't hers that glowed blue from a vacant aquarium. She grabbed her gun from the empty pillow next to which she slept, and remembered, forcing the words into her mind, that Jane Shepard, was nobody's doll.

And no one's pawn.

She had come to Thane alone and reeling, with nothing left in her now borrowed life. An indentured servant. Her volus bank accounts had been cleared – she had given everything to charity in her will as she had no one to name as a sole beneficiary. The taste of flavorless food made worse by the Cerberus credits that paid for it; every drop of moisture and vivacity robbed already into the emptiness in which she sat, alone, in the ghost of a ship that like her, was only a forgery of its namesake.

Grey eyes looking to an empty seat before her, that would give anything, for that remembered cup of tea.

The rifle on the table, the busy hands, the glassy frill, bent down in concentration.

The kind eyes, and the harmonic voice.

Always so welcomed, once so pleasant.

Her best friend, and deepest regret, simply wiped from the galaxy, from her reach, like those scars missing in the mirror.

Like everyone, and everything.

Liara, gone.

Ashley, who wouldn't even look at her.

Tali's warmth had turned to ice, a winter behind a mirrored veil in the nightmare of Freedom's Progress. Her accented voice completely changed by age and something else, and she could still remember the moment her once little quarian had grown quiet glimpsing the Cerberus marks upon her shining new armor, and she knew that those shapes alone had closed Tali's deep and hidden heart.

And after everything, after waking up to a universe in pieces, to a Citadel that was unrecognizable, to an Anderson with his hands tied, she had nothing. Tired of the young Krogan's relentless immaturity, she had been living off of Joker's small kindness of letting her sit beside him in the cockpit in the mornings with her coffee, listening in a smirk as he tried to teach the new AI to swear, for weeks until she had found the drell on Illium.

_A suicide mission. Yes. A suicide mission will do nicely._

She was a grown woman with the weight of thousands of strangers on her shoulders, who only thought of one person, the last she had seen before her life slipped away; but that line, had struck her.

Thane Krios, was a different breed.

Entirely.

He simply came aboard, his services – sought by kings and matriarchs, free. The Drell became a rare bird on the Normandy; he who so deftly slipped into the shadows and became the air itself; a sad fate for the many younger women on the ship; Cerberus girls from the Sol system who had never seen an alien before.

At least, an alien 'like that'.

And so the little clique watched jealously, Kelly a spy among them with her quiet mind and watchful eyes, as they only glimpsed him in fleeting verdant flashes so fluidly beside their new commander with the intense eyes, in between their secret meetings that went for hours. Envious, a few convened and tipped off Miranda, who - furious and undermined, sought the commander in reprieve.

It made no difference.

His tutelage of her would simply have be moved somewhere more private. He had said that he was dying. He said that he wanted to leave the galaxy a better place than he had left it. That he had to atone.

And to him, she said, she wanted her life back. Her body.

Imperfect. With its every scar.

BAM.

No warning - she lashed out – rushing him like a bullet; her speed no match for his reflex; he sidestepped her, seeing her fist move past in hyper speed, he grabbed it out of mid-air, twisted – rotated nearly 180 degrees by the elbow until her wrist was bent unnaturally behind her head – she screamed in agony; he threw her to the hard floor with no effort.

They may have both made their first kill at twelve, but all the difference, lay in training.

He was untouchable.

She collided in to the panels below with all her weight, skinning the bases of her palms.

"Shepard," he said pleasantly, as he dusted her sweat off his gloves, "The day shall one day come when your survival will depend on more than your aim, and ability to swear."

_No._

"You let your emotions deceive you."

_No. _

"Drive, but no focus. Power, with no elegance. No subtlety. No direction."

He wasn't winning that easy.

"When you are ready, you will fight me blind."

If there was something she never did, it was surrender.

"And win."

Never.

"And when that day comes..."

Seeing him by his sound, she listed for his approach, as he walked to her, still lecturing his livid disciple – she waited, feigning a slow climb back to her feet.

Stars – her heel hit his knee so hard he fell – she turned, fist raised; just a flash and she caught his expression – pleased – as she threw her punch – he caught it.

_No. No! How does he-!_

He caught it, calmly smiling, crushing her delicate fingers in his fist with an intensity that brought tears to her eyes, catching a scream in her throat.

"You will not need your eyes to see."

Although he was hobbled on one knee, he tossed her from him like dust, and she hit the floor.

Again.

Thane slowly stood, forcing his kneecap back into place without even looking at it, concentrating on the spent form still clinging to the ground, his pity overtaking him.

Something was bothering her. She was never this careless, and he knew she was no longer absorbing the lesson.

"Enough, siha."

But she shook, on her hands and knees, hair obscuring her face, but he watched as her fists slide shut, as he heard her broken nails scratch hard against the floor. She looked back at him, though the sweat and the deep rivulets of her hair, her eyes violent, but in them pain that did not come from her wounds.

Pain, that came from somewhere else. Somewhere above them, in the dark.

A far red room, and a silhouette. Sleeping awake, an angel turned to stone.

"_No. Again."_

His eyes narrowed; a rare thing.

"_Enough. _You have chastised yourself sufficiently. I will not assist any longer."

Through her straining breaths, they watched each other, until the rage faded from her face, and she wiped the last shadow of it from her brow along with her sweat. He stared her down, waiting for her to calm herself. Finally, she jutted her head in a nod, admitting sorely to defeat, unable to even look at him. Composed, he went to her, and offered his gloved hand, which she looked at bitterly, but after a long moment, took.

He closed his hand around hers and looked directly in her eyes.

"It is punishment you seek, but discipline that you need."

His gaze burned into hers, seeing straight through.

She looked away, and stared.

He raised her to her feet and saw the blood soak through her clothes to her knees. He shook his head in disappointment. Guiding her, her instructor again, he let her hand slip out of his as she took the steps on her own. They walked together in the dim beneath the lonely exposed lights of the hangar, late in the evening, and asked her quietly as they paced off her wounds,

"…What ails you?"

Even though he already knew the answer.

Walking surely, his hands folded pensively behind his back, he observed her move beside him, meticulously consuming every minute detail.

Tucking it deep, into his memory.

Her eyes were closed from exhaustion, veins like rivers flexing across her forehead. He had never known her before her rebirth, so the thin orange streaks of scars that cut across her face meant less than nothing to his eye, which saw everything. The brows, full and graceful, the split one used to hold erased; the lips, nourished at last - taking in her breath, the jaw – thin, deceptive in its fragility; eyelashes, thick, running with the black cosmetic in her sweat, lining the lids, still closed, as she walked, head bent down, concentrating deeply beneath her clinging red hair.

Hesitant to speak. He could almost taste his scarred image upon her mind, before her eyes still closed. He waited, moving in silence beside her, wondering when she would affirm his words.

"He…"

The Drell looked deep into the distance, listening.

Heavy.

"…He won't talk to me."

Thane nodded, his eyes fixed away.

"As I suspected."

"_You knew?"_

He gave her a sidelong glance and smiled grimly.

"Yes. It is clear."

She shook her head, exhaling deeply.

"It's good to know I'm still transparent."

The drell tilted his scaled head back, remembering.

"If I had a credit for every time I watched you enter the battery and exit five minutes later, disheartened-"

But she barely heard him, the image of the turian turned so vigilantly away from her filled her with fury.

"Calibrations? _Calibrations?_ _What the hell_ is even calibrating?! It's a _brand new_ canon!"

She looked at him, shaking her head violently in dismay, holding up three fingers, meeting his glance impetuously.

"Three weeks, Thane. _Three weeks. _Do you know how much of an idiot I feel like, walking down there every goddamn day, and all I get is –"

"Do not be so quick to judge -"

"_Can it wait for a minute? I'm in the middle of some calibrations!? Goddamnit!"_

She immediately put her hands to her face and consciously breathed, despicably embarrassed, forcing back the wrath that did her nothing; its seduction narcotic in her blood. The wrath that had defeated her, again, denying her his tutelage for the pulse of rage deafened her once careful ears.

"Stop. Breathe."

"I am trying, I am trying, I just don't understand –"

He waited for her hands to fall away from her face, and he stepped before her, and looked into her eyes.

In his deep, quiet voice, like stones beneath water.

"Do you recall what I said when we first met?"

She exhaled, looking from one of his inklike eyes to the next, deep upon his smooth scaled face, and repeated quietly, his words, that he had heard many years before he had said them to her, from his master long before him.

"The measure of an individual is difficult to discern by actions alone."

He nodded soberly, "Yes."

But she shook her head, missing the meaning, blinded by her emotions and her pain.

"Why? Why does he ignore me? He…"

She looked away, eyes closing.

"We tried, Thane…you and I, for so long to find him…and now, he just…"

How bittersweet the touch of him when he came to her in the dark, in that place beneath the ship. His arms around her body, hard face pressed to her, so close. She could still recall his scent with painful clarity. Pleasant, warm, and strange – wrapped around her with his arms. The heat of his body just beneath her as she pressed to him, its temperature so much higher than her own.

How had it come to this?

And he just disappeared. After the tears and the shaking, the calm and the storm, how he clung to her, the things whispered, and his flaming eyes so close. Their piercing sadness, the cobalt canvas of an alien sky. They had fallen; two nephilim, from the heavens in that dark pool in the image of the mako, drowning in its outline, holding onto each other for dear life. The unsaid suffering; her scars gone, smoothed over just as his were freshly torn. The memories of a time still close, still right within his pupils, recorded on repeat in the turian's mind. The script written in sorrow and the blood of the innocent. The countless names etched into so many graves, the bones that lay in the open, and the dog tags spilled upon the floor. They held, they held, for all they had, which was nothing. Nothing, in the void.

Everything a lie, everything intransient. The breath and the tears and his fingers in the strands of her hair - each singing a lament to the memory of when they once had their wings. The only thing real in a ship that wasn't theirs, in a battle with no enemy; a mission with no hope.

And after, he simply disappeared.

How many mornings she had gone down, tea for him singeing her eager hand, to walk into that room where he leaned deep over the counsel, staring into what she couldn't see. She tried to catch his eye, to make him smile. How many cups she brought him – Earl Grey from Chakwas, Darjeeling, Chai, Oolong, Palevenian, things from Thessia, she couldn't even begin to pronounce, but to no avail. All for nothing, pleasant cups of kindness gone cold from neglect. His darkened eyes never lifted from their soundless rain, staring down into a past she could not touch, a path that lead his soul to somewhere she remembered with such overwhelming pain but could not follow, for the waves of those impassable dunes would only part for him.

Gone, where she could not follow, and could not see.

A hell, meant only, for one.

She had tried, tried so hard, to speak, to talk, to bullshit, anything, anything, but nothing, and more nothing. Down she went to him, every day with a fraction of hope, and every day he snuffed it with his silence, and starved the garden fighting through the stone walls of her heart, thirsting for the water only he could give.

And this, the Drell knew, more than she could ever understand.

He understood how easily one can sleep through life, secluded in the desert of the mind.

He suffered watching her. An unrequited feeling coursed through him, cause and scorching effect. The drell drank every moment he lived as though it was his last. He was a man who had only truly lived in the company of another, and with her gone, there was no sun for him. He had planned to die that night in Illium, on his last mission, before fate and fire had intervened and made other plans for him. Spoken from the lips of the goddesses themselves came the words of a stranger that snatched him from his fate. In the eyes of the woman that stood before him was written the last chapter of his life. His last mission. His swan-song, as the humans said. For now he had a purpose. Again.

She would never know how sweet her words were to him, how he listened and considered in all those long hours she had sought his solace when she was alone, a child again in her tears. Yet again she was born from nothing into an uncaring world. He gave her his ears, his honesty. In time came his trust, worn fragile and thin. He had so few days left that trusting the lone human who had come to need him was no great gamble, for he had nothing more to lose. Already he felt his breathe shorten sometimes when he stood too fast, or his eyes grow dark suddenly as the oxygen refused to flow through his blood as it once did. And every time she looked his way, whenever she sought him, the waves of his heart came crashing as he realized that every day lived brought him further and further from land, deeper, and closer, to the merciless sea.

So he lived once again in company. He knew he lived in the light of a glance that was not meant for him. But, he thought once, alone at his table with his little cup of sterile water, that it was better to live in a light of a sun no matter how distant, than to die in the shade.

Alone.

He had little time, but what he had, was hers to take.

And so when she asked to learn, he taught her everything he knew.

Because she asked.

She needed only, to ask.

The drell watched the glance she held for only for the sniper, wishing he wouldn't waste his time, and hers. Time borrowed, time precious. Time that was better spent in the arms of the beloved, in the embrace a lover, than in memories distant and cold.

He understood solipsism.

He understood it well.

He had lived it, and now he saw it spread before him in a recurring nightmare incapable of fading. He watched her try to speak to him, to reach through the waves as Irikah once did, long ago, in a dream slain to waste. A pale bud now wilting, the slip that brought the siha to her knees after she had lost so much.

She had lost him too.

And it burned his heart, the observer invisible in the corner, as he watched the tragedy unfold everyday. He felt it in her eyes as he tried to guide her by the evening. How familiar the sight; the woman with her gifts of forgiveness, trying to touch the shoulder of a ghost no longer there.

And he knew she wandered the ship late through the night, unable to rest, unable to eat. Alone, quiet and unseen. He watched her in the shadows as she would look out the lonely window at the careless stars that glittered near her head, casting their silver aura on her skin. She thought everyone else had gone to sleep. Everyone, but him, he who was too afraid to dream. And in the dark he knew she was waiting, hoping, to chance across someone. Someone tall and dark. Hurt. Scarred. Someone that she loved, even if she was still waiting to understand the meaning of the word.

So he said nothing.

Nothing.

As he watched her.

"What should I do?" she asked, staring into the black, and his eyes sank to the floor, as he let a precious breath slip from him into the cold air. He stared at the floor, hearing the elevator whirring.

He couldn't bear to look.

"He has lost so deeply that his mind now sleeps. It is only the body that functions. A machine without an operator."

Her eyes closed as she bowed her head, and she held her arms, her skin freezing in the starless shade.

He continued, looking at the door ahead.

Another closed door.

"Do not lose faith…Yet...the man you used to know."

She looked to him, her eyes with tears just barely there.

He stared ahead. He could not take the memories.

"…May be gone…"

The door opened, and he stepped to a hand, careful to touch him only over the shirt folded precisely over his arm, stopped him. He looked to her, weary and reluctant.

Eyes the color of storm clouds.

Tears just barely there. The memory. Terrible in its weight.

"Thane."

He looked at her, seeing someone for a moment that she was not.

Someone gone.

Air.

"…Yes..siha…"

"How…how can I just let go?"

His lips formed the smallest smile, and he cast his eyes so heavy with her glance down to the floor. He lifted her hand from his arm, letting her fingers slip through his, his mind sliding with them against his will, remembering for a moment something unfelt for years, something that was now only thought and synapse and memory when he lay to sleep at night, and he looked into her eyes.

And he said very quietly.

"…You don't."

The doors closed.

She listened to the silence wondering if he would ever tell her the meaning of that word.


	25. The Messenger

Chapter 25: The Messenger

When he opened his eyes he could only see her outline.

Blackness stagnate in the dead of night, hardened and formed into a silhouette. The dark incarnate with her crested crown, a form that held him fixed and still as time froze in stasis. A head with no face, a body with no movement, a mouth with no words. That which had had come to him in the heart of every night for nearly two months. A nightmare hardened into solid shadow.

The recurring memory that never died.

Every night the same dream, every night the same paralysis. The same crushing fear that swept him in a leaden wave as he awoke to see her standing in his corner faceless and black. Her shadow, still and silent, watching from across the unlit room.

Eyeless as the shadow was, he knew she could see everything. Everything he had done wrong. Everything he had let so blithely slip through his fingers to the ruin where she lay.

Though the morning would come, though he would pray for those mechanical lamps so high above to consecrate the heavy space with their artificial light, he felt her sight upon him in every waking moment. The unseen glance that ate the marrow from within his bones, the icy fingertips that touched his neck from the corner where he knew she still stood in what he prayed were only dreams. Through this silent requiem, through this nightly penance, every moment he drew breath was as fruitless as breathing in a vacuum. Every moment was a burden. He breathed those empty breaths filled with the cold air of the dead from the void where they'd gone without him, where he had abandoned them in their graves still open to the unforgiving sky. He could not cease the guilt which poisoned each second of the borrowed time he was given to live. And so he toiled.

To toil, to pay. The heavy price for his cardinal sin. That they all had died so that he could live. He lived to work at the counsel where he stood night and day until he fell down exhausted. Only then could he sleep, too heavy with hunger and effort to go on awake.

His dreams drowned him in violence and pain. The thrashing of his limbs long since abandoned, for now, the only direction was only down. Deeper and further, tied to his feet was the anchor of his guilt.

That he had lived and lived only, because he didn't listen.

He never listened to her.

Every sliver of time he lived was on air stolen from the last breaths of the dead, every time he heard his heart he felt hers slow beneath his face, and every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the stars dimming in her eyes that he could never save.

And every night, the contrition of his conscious metastasized into something familiar. Something once welcome, in their place beneath the hold. She came to him, again, as she had. Once, in a place now far across the endless plane.

Once in the chairs where they had come to sit beside each other in the dark; where after the moments of their daylight passed they reposed aside the other, quiet. He could always feel the sweet, ruinous words hanging on the tip of her tongue, but she never spoke them, not in two years, and this alone brought him the thinnest thread of relief that he could name in that time he spent on that grave they called an asteroid. He knew she could hear him descending to the below each night after they had drained the blood of the wretched, that she also never slept, and he knew with a pained heart she could not resist the chance to sit beside him even in silence. He knew, because she came to him in the center of every night of every week, nearly silent on the pads of her many toed feet that walked bare upon their cold and empty floors. How she would descend and slip into the chair beside him, deep beneath the earth, far from where the others slept and every night with him, sit beside, and listen with open ears to the soundless dirges of obsession. He had watched her life slip away, the lenses fog in her eyes as they lost their light forever. But she never stopped coming to visit him, to be with him. To stand by him in the night.

_"I don't deserve your forgiveness."_

He whispered to the form watching from the black, but it said nothing to him from where it stood amidst the machines, still as stone in its wrong angles that enclosed the unyielding stare that pinned him to where he lay.

Paralyzed.

His heart, threatening death that never came with every passing moment. The moments going on, him staring into the black, as the black stared back into him. On and on, until the lights powered up from above. The voices of the crew rang out like the bells of the churches he remembered from the Presidium. And the ghost, driven out, was gone.

Only then could he move, only then could he think. And every morning life would slowly replace the ice that seized his bones from his nightly death as he stared into the embodiment of his guilt, the lives of ten people spawned into one unmoving entity.

One demon.

Even though the lights came on every morning, and he would fold up his cot and store it away in the battery he never left, he still felt her there, watching, from that corner. And there to that room he became chained by the thing only he could see that held him in its cold breath, that kept his eye firmly upon the screen even when the only thing he had left would come and try to coax him out. He let the tea go cold beside him long after she would leave, even her strong heart in its bulletproof armor crushed by his penitent silence.

How could he live, and what pleasure did he deserve - for what he had done?.

And though he asked there was no answer. A punishment, that he accepted in the suffering that was the only solace against his crucifying guilt. The woman he desired so powerfully it killed stopped coming to see him, and his embittered relief at her absence again took him as it did with Mierin.

That Shepard would be spared of the disease that was the eye of his heart.

And so day by day the tea went cold, until the day came that it stopped coming at all, and a day later, when he least expected it, came something else. An unwelcome visitor appeared. Someone older, who in his last hours saw things with a clarity that was too beautiful and painful to bear. Someone proficient in the subtler arts.

He remembered; forgetting was an impossibility. He who had lived and died more deaths than stones stood tall in those graveyards on Omega. His every lungful was poisoned with the dust of cemeteries filled, wet with the blood of families torn, the silent violence of a heart necrotic from a loss of air; reached for with thrashing hands beneath the falling sands of time in an hourglass with but an hour left.

He had lived in vain only to finally see what was most beautifully, terribly precious, the greatest secret of the Universe, the purpose behind it all – the reason for life itself, only in his last hour. A lifetime lived before the minute hand struck, and the last grain of sand in that desert where he squandered his life and now lay entombed, fell.

He said he wanted to make the Universe a brighter place.

He came to him, bearing three things written on that grain of sand.

A truth, a gift, and a secret.

A certain intervention was necessary. Although he could not see it then, the path the turian still tread if only for the prayer whispered from the blue lips that had made him bulletproof, was no longer his alone.

And through the darkness came a messenger in the image of a drell, who came to walk beside the other still following his path within the shade, and said,

* * *

"I envy you."

His gun was out and his back was pressed into the corner near the door so fast the unconscious movement of his limbs passed in a cerulean blur. The turian, startled witless by the graveled voice which split the soundless hours of his penance before the workstation, flared. Plates back, muscles firing, heart caught pounding in his chest, he stared up to a the dark space above the ship's leviathan weapons in the red hazed foreground to watch the warm shadows stir slowly to life as a being melted into existence from the air itself.

His eyes focused; unblinking.

The assassin.

Thane emerged easily, his lithe body crouched like a feline above the twisted metal of the massive guns beyond the railing, and set his dark eyes down on Garrus with something complex written into his often undefinable features.

Something quiet. Something reminiscent, almost, of resentment.

"How long have you been spying on me?" Hissed the turian, for the life of him not being able to recall having even left the room since he awoke that morning. The drell, still perched easily, slowly shook his head, uttering in his soft way,

"Spying? No. Not spying. Realizing."

The drell's black scleras did not move as he watched the turian who, unpleasantly surprised and somewhat disturbed by the notion that he had been watched in complete silence for an entire afternoon or more, stared right back at him; the deep light glancing off his fissured scars. Though they had fought beside each other in the short months since the turian had been revived and he had found the often wordless assassin remarkably skilled and personable enough when he got around to it, those notions however pleasant did not stop him from training his M-15 Vindicator on him with surgical precision.

Cobalt and obsidian met and pierced, the one trying to stare the other down as ice met ice; nothing faltered, nothing gave.

He was in no place to be crept up upon, alone in the great below of his thoughts.

"Illuminate me." Detracted Garrus in a low phlanged threat, not moving his weapon even a sliver.

Thane kept his sight trained on him as finitely as the gun, his lips the only thing that moved.

"Long enough to doubt that you are doing anything here at all."

Eyes that did not blink.

Not once.

"Except stare into things better left behind."

The searing heat of anger filtered up from the turian's gut through the bottoms of his lungs, up into his pieced together heart, burning with an intensity he had not felt in months. A hot, awful hatred from somewhere else entirely; a hatred reserved only for the thoughts he collected and ruminated over of a certain member of his own kind he had once called brother only to be betrayed. Dark thoughts bred deep in the battery after everyone else had gone, and left him with himself.

He stared at Thane in writhing contempt as the words fell like fire from his tongue.

"And what _do you know,_"

Thane's eyes with their secrets and deep wells of memories narrowed like a retracting vein, as he slowly turned his head the other way, staring deep into the turian's rotting core.

Unnerved, the turian felt no fear.

Only disgust. Disgust, at the his pride. His utter trust in his own axioms, his reviling dare to even dream they applied to anyone, anyone else.

To him.

To what he had seen. To all he had done.

How dare he.

_How dare he._

So the words kept pouring.

Over two years of suffering in the dark, of sleep measured only in seconds between the touch of solid ghosts. Dreams punctuated by the visions of rotting flesh tinged in blue. Cold lips wreathed in shining black, parted with no breath. Eyes that looked, but didn't see.

Every piece of his broken heart, let fall.

"- _assassin? You do what you're told, you don't have to deal with the repercussions later! I know you drell and your convenient philosophies, your liberating beliefs...You don't have to feel a single damn thing...Just your finger on the trigger. How restful your conscious must be, how fortunate – that the blood on your hands doesn't count because your body did it, not your mind."_

Thane merely stared back.

His features unphased.

He had nothing to explain to him.

Nothing.

The turian stared into him with every atom of wrath his destroyed body had to muster, focusing his hate on him like a laser. The stranger and the hypocrite; the killer who dared to dole out judgments down upon anyone's shortcomings from his misplaced and imaginary ivory tower, standing tall and proud amidst its moat of corpses.

How dare he.

How dare he even try to tell him how to feel.

No one knew.

No one.

His finger slipped onto the trigger, uncaring, so bitter he could barely see as the drell walked, simply moving – forward, one foot before the other so quiet and uncaring, staring the turian's furious plates down before him as he moved with unbreakable conviction towards him.

He slipped himself over the railing in an approach like rain; the air electric, alive with the scent of oncoming storm that was felt before it was seen; every subtly fatal movement magnified by the slowed passage of time as he emerged from the dark to the light.

The turian did not move even a hair as the assassin walked right up to the barrel of his gun, not tearing his glance for a single moment.

And pressed his scaled forehead to it.

"Your gun won't save you."

Eyes in eyes.

"And I do not fear it."

A heartbeat.

He looked into him and saw pain so deep words did not exist for its depths, and an old man said to a young man, with bitterness that did not reach his eyes.

"When your last hours come, on their fiery wings. Inescapable. Inevitable. Your gun won't save you."

Eyes

"When you finally see, after your whole life..."

Widening.

"The time you wasted. And you stand there, looking, into that impossible light, the light that leaves you behind...that claims all that you love, all that you built..and where she goes, you cannot follow..."

He pressed his head harder to the barrel, until with a shake of his hand the turian had to slip it down, to look into those haunted eyes as they gleamed unobstructed in the vibrating silence.

"Your gun, will not save you."

The assassin banefully glared straight into him; past his armor, past his plates, down to his very soul, and drove the anger out of his bloodstained pit with the gravity of his words; staring into the turian's searching eyes with an intensity he had never seen in anyone he had ever met in his entire life, and said,

"You should have died that day...And yet you just keep _breathing...Wasting._"

His eyes.

"Every."

There were not words for his eyes.

"Breath. Nothing. _Nothing_, will buy that time back. The time I watch you squander with every passing day."

Shaking.

"_Do you hear me? Nothing. And you...you have everything...Everything...And yet, here with your thoughts and your memories of places long dead you waste the gifts of the living...No more...No more can I watch while you squander two miracles when there are some who would kill for only one."_

He stared at him, into the unknown, into a voice that spoke to him from somewhere he had never heard, as the assassin put his face right in his, and said with absolutely no fear.

"Go to her."

Eyes, narrowing.

"She waits."

Time. There was no time in those eyes.

"For _you_."

Not taking his eye off him, the turian stepped back, his plates crossed deeply, centering himself, and asked in shaking harmonics to the drell whose expression was unreadable and whose rasped voice was as cold as stone,

"Where?"

He set his gaze down upon their shadows crossed upon the floor, and said with a voice that was as lifeless as that sand,

"Above us. She seeks to go out into the Citadel alone. She asked me... not to shadow her."

His eyes met the turian's, heavily. And then something else came through.

From somewhere buried beneath those graves, far beneath the sand in that sun soaked desert, from the rivers that ran red with the blood that drowned his lungs, came a betrayal.

A betrayal from his body, the thing that was his tool, the thing that acted, and wanted, of its own accord.

The drell's gaze wavered, and his voice split strangely, as he said.

"She still believes...she won't be recognized...She goes alone..._foolish._..I wouldn-"

He hid his face suddenly.

"...do not let her..."

And as Garrus watched the drell turn his gaze forcefully away from him, back into that shadow, he realized slowly and with overwhelming heaviness, that the man standing across from him with eyes gleaming with guilt fixed so forcefully on the ground, was in love.

A lesser man would have been angry.

But a lesser man was not Garrus.

All anger, all hate, faded from his heart, as he watched the drell merely stand, unwilling to look up for even a moment, from where his eyes came to rest deep into the floor. But no despondency crossed him, no jealousy. No dejection, and no poison. He felt not wrath, or envy, or any sin. Only, from the deepest fiber of his being, pity.

Pity as he watched him, and knew the look written on his face.

And knew it well.

He turned to leave.

But as his foot reached the last step before the door, he turned back and looked to the man still facing fixedly away from him, at the long striations on his neck lined with perspiration shining, and at the hands with their strange fingers draped lankly at his sides.

"Thane."

He didn't turn around.

"...Thank you."

He only nodded, never looking back, as Garrus left him.

With the ghosts.

* * *

The elevator already gone, he bolted for the stairs, running, running for all his life. He caught his breath before the door and feigned out an easy exit, swiping the massive gleaming room with his eyes before he caught her sight – just a flash of red, sliding on a black jacket as she moved fast towards the cockpit. He slid out, feet carrying him to her in his long stride, and called,

"Shepard."

She stopped dead, the jacket falling to her shoulders.

Slowly.

Angrily.

She turned around.

She stared into his eyes, raising an uncleaved eyebrow.

"Keep your voice down. I'm trying -" Her eyes glanced around untrustingly,"To leave on my own."

Eyes, dreamed of, yearned for, reached for even in such bitter disappointment, slid back into his, and she tilted her head to the side and exhaled, looking from one of his black scleras to the other.

"If there's something I can help you with, well." Her blacklined eyes narrowed slightly, "You probably should have asked earlier. I've got-"

"I know what you're doing. Let me come with you."

Her lips parted as she realized she had been betrayed.

_Goddamn you, Thane._

Fury crossed her as she abuptly began to walk away from him; he who she had so dutifully tried to work out into the open away from that dark place where he had gone to hide, she who knew the taste of loss in place of a mother's touch - to talk with her, to heal with her, after weeks and weeks of fruitless effort only for nothing, nothing to -

"Please."

She stopped, thin fingers clenching in her fists. She turned to him with her blazing eyes, and was caught still by the look unfolded on the broken plates of his face.

But she shook it off, raising her finger, realizing only a moment later that she was standing right before him, drawn into his warmth, against her will.

Close, if only to refuse him.

"No. _No. _Two months. Two months you don't utter a single word to me, after everything. After all we've been through. After – god, look at all of this! Look at where we are! And you won't even look at me? No. No, I'm going, I'm going out there, and no one is going to be my _chaperone! I can take care of myself – I don't need you, or Thane, or any other goddamned man - _"

"You're right. You don't."

Words cut off, her chest heaving in conniption, staring up into him with wrath, and he only looked down at her over those few inches which meant all the difference; that spare bit of air that defined normalcy for him and her as separate species entirely.

"You don't need me."

Her fists shaking.

"But I need you. To listen."

And they fell.

"...Again."

She stared, blood turned to ice, and stomach to air.

Inhaling slowly, carefully, she made sure she was seeing him correctly and that she wasn't hallucinating in some stasis pod somewhere as he looked down to her with heavy eyes back behind his ruined face, and said,

"You can go wherever you like. You can go alone, or with company. I can't stop you. You're...you, you're...untouchable. But this time..."

He leaned, slightly on one foot, looking long at her from the eye without the visor.

The harmonics in his voice more unsure than afraid, a tone he would never have had two years before.

But what the hell else did he have to lose.

"...I'd like to come with you."

Her eyes searched and fell into his, as he said the words, in that voice that left her knees - no matter how hard she resisted, no matter how hard she didn't want to believe that any part of her could still be after all, after all that had been said and done -

Weak.

"If you'll have me."

She stared at him, and he looked down at her, silent, with the embers in his eyes.

And she said, tearing her gaze away and hiding it behind her hand, unable to bear his unmoving look, as her hair fell between her fingers as she couldn't stand to look at him for the shaking in her gut.

"...Fine...But only because you owe me."

"I know."

"You said...you said you would tell me the 'whole damn story', if I got you out alive."

"Well." he said in his low harmonics as he observed her slide her hand out from beneath the jagged sheath of her hair to fold her arms protectively across her leathered core, to look, very cautiously, back into the cobalt rings of his eyes, where he kept her in reflection.

"Here I am."

She nodded, smiling very slightly, though he saw the sadness there.

"Indeed you are."

Her eyes closed, and her head fell, and she spoke to the ground, with great caution.

"And... I think...you owe me, roughly, something like thirty-seven cups of tea. I might like it if you paid me back somewh-"

"How about I take you for a drink, and you can have whatever you want."

Her eyes shot up into his, and there they stayed, in a long, intense glance he did not care to hide.

Not anymore.

He looked at her, and she looked at him.

A tense moment passed, before she said,

"Yeah. You know, I think I'd like that."


	26. The Escapists Part I: Firsts

Chapter 26: The Escapists Part I: Firsts

Two figures evaporated from the ship beneath a veil of stealth.

Quickly they moved, like water, and just as transparent. No one aboard noticed as a tall figure and a small one evanesced from the watchful eyes of the Normandy SR2 without a sound from the shadow of her wings. Though Mierin had taught him well in their years together, the Turian quietly admired the small woman to his right, walking just a few steps ahead, as she slipped beneath the waves of the crowd without causing a ripple.

She had suffered greatly to learn that control over the colorless - the ballet of subtlety that was a fundamental in the art of invisibility. Mierin's lessons filtered back to him; her reprimanding voice and her endless drills. In time he had learned to disappear as deftly as the Asari, to melt and fade by the command of one's solidness against the eye. As his skills grew slowly, his senses became trained to catch and appreciate those whose mastery far surpassed his own. The greatest he had ever seen was Mierin, the seductress and huntress. In close second, Thane the assassin (whose expert deception of him that morning was still raw in his mind) but now in soundless awe, the woman they called Shepard.

He had known her for years, seen flashes of her memories, but still knew almost nothing about her. From the glow in her skin that made her seemingly bulletproof, to the nightmares he knew still veiled her, to those long white scars now gone that lined the memories he had borrowed from Liara - she was still, after all the time he dreamed of her, and all that he had whispered to her shade - entirely, indefinably, but a sum of parts; with no beginning and no end.

_Shepard._ Just a name and an idea. He knew only what she revealed to him, only what she wanted him to know. He had thought for two years over every moment they had ever spent together. Long had he to meditate over those memories so clear only on the fringes, the centers missing and obscured.

"Do you often go out by yourself?" He asked quietly, watching her out of the corner of his sharpened eye as they filtered through the swells of heads pulsing past them in waves. Her silver eye caught his as they walked beside each other, and he saw it turn away as she considered, her lips, calm now but still taken aback. He could tell by her pace that whatever she was doing, she was used to doing it alone.

"Not since Alchera." She replied softly, definitely, as he watched her eyes slip amongst the faces, left and right, always aware, always on guard. "But much more when I was younger. When I needed to get away. I…like to be among strangers. It helps me clear my head."

It was nearly noon and for many the middle of the lunch hour. The wide neon-stippled lanes of Zakera ward's twenty seventh level overflowed with tides of workmen and shop clerks, women shopping and couples meeting between jobs. The flow of life poured in volus grey, elcor tan, hanar rose, asari cobalt, peppered here and there with quarian calico. Realizing she was moving slightly too fast, as if to get away, she consciously slowed her step a hair and let him catch his long stride beside her, and as he did, she paused and looked up as he approached her in the pale blue light.

Wreathed still in his destroyed armor, the front of the heavy looking carapace still cracked and burned, he looked to her like a tree without its leaves. Her glance traveled; from the double pronged toes of his thin worn soles, up the long recurved lines of his shins encased within the plates of his greaves. Her eyes slipped up the exaggerated curve of his waist set deep within the hips that balanced his frame beneath the steep arcs of his shoulders, and upon his face, looking at her with eyes now so dark. Atop it all, atop the jagged edges, the curves and barbs, the hard lines and angles, was his face amidst its shattered plates, and it struck her profoundly how much it had changed. Beneath the razored fringe which always stole her eyes was a glance that could caress or burn, that had glimmered once with naiveté, and now watched her through a bandaged wound, noting how she stared at him, to the glance that slid down from the blades that crested him to the fissures on his face and lingered there longer than they should have.

He read her thoughts, as they stood amidst the moving crowd, and he watched her eyes stay upon his scars, mesmerized, and he wondered if she liked them.

She was dressed in civilian clothes he didn't know she owned, but of course everything was different now. Details no one else cared to see stood obvious to his trained memory. Her hair was now a richer crimson in its sleeker gleaming sheet, her flesh now even like fine china, erased of every mark, of every sunkissed freckle of which he noticed first and missed along with the scar that once cleaved her elegant brow. Her body had changed almost imperceptibly, but certainly to the sniper's trained eye which had memorized every foreign inch of her that he had seen but once. Every inch that would go on to be remembered in the dark a thousand times and a thousand times more.

Where she had once been lean and muscular, he saw now curves exaggerated where there had before been only muscle and bone. What once was bare and sculpted was now sweeping and soft, he wondered if by design, or from two years of stasis. Her hard cut thighs were now supple and slightly more voluptuous, the new curves undeniable beneath the gleaming black fabric that clung like paint to her with it silver inlet honeycombs, the sheathed garment that swept over the hypnotic wave of her hip into the hourglass of her waist at which he tried not to stare, but failed.

Tragically. Obviously. She hid the quivering of her hands as he made it impossible for her not to notice.

Hidden beneath the tight thing with its distracting striations and seams that covered everything and concealed nothing, his eyes fell beneath the panels of the open leather jacket that could not hide that magnetic curve of her - the valley between her breasts and hips that entranced and trapped and never let him forget how the curve that framed her navel fit between his thumb and forefinger like it was made for just, and only, for him.

Their glance met.

The problem with looking in his eyes was that their color stole her words.

"You look terrible." She lied, hypnotized, tones level, caught in what was daring to smolder just within his lenses. She dared not even blink.

"The bandages are supposed to come off soon." He said quietly, edging just close enough to her that he had to tilt his head down the six inches he had on her, and he watched transfixed as she slid her grey eye with its pupil he was certain was dilating so, so slightly from one of his lenses into the other before falling, magnetized, to the damages on his face. The crowd moved past them, blind to the tension.

The ache.

He watched her fidget slightly, her lips moving with the tilt of her head, and he watched her bite back words, saying nothing. She looked down for a moment, shifting, and then looked back up to him, saying in soft seriousness,

"You…stand out. I wanted to go unnoticed."

"I can manage."

She looked carefully away, fixing her eyes on an asari going through shopping in a nearby lobby, and said in perfectly controlled tones,

"I understand if your armor holds sentimental value. I do not want to intrude upon your customs, but, for 'missions' like this,"

He watched her flex her first two fingers at that word in the human gesture he understood for sarcasm, still looking fixedly away from him.

" – I will respectfully request something more relaxed. Armor draws the eye here, even if unmarked."

He watched her carefully, at her masterfully but still noticeably controlled expression, and considered deeply. He could see she was trying her hardest to avoid the burning glance of his eye, which he didn't care to hide. Leaving the main battery was like leaving the bottom of the ocean. He hadn't tasted fresh air for months, and away from the demons that stole his breath and mind, he was ravenous, once again, to live.

He felt the familiar tidal wave of negativity flowing through his body, and he fought it as it threatened to steal the his slight intoxication at her nervousness, at how he saw the pulse quicken in her veins when he drew near, and confirmed that which he knew to be her greatest lie. The thing he knew she would deny, and deny, but couldn't ignore. Almost sadistically, almost, he felt a slight revenge at this; now, now she knew what it felt like, to be teased by that which was right in front of her.

"Apologies, Shepard. This is all I have." But then he caught her errant eye, and involuntarily he smirked with her, crossing his plates in understanding as that devious glint so familiar from days long gone snaked across her features, "…Unless you are insinuating…"

Her lips drew into a slightly malevolent smile, as she looked slyly away. "You know, Cerberus has quite the budget…"

"Go on."

She caught his eye, smirking so softly, "For 'team building' activities…"

Those fingers flexed again, and and that smirk.

"…You don't say?" He flanged in slippery sarcasm, and she nodded with very artfully exaggerated seriousness.

"Yes. Absolutely. I feel, Officer Vakarian,"

"Officer?"

"Well, you would know that if you left the battery every once and a while –"

"I did. To shoot things. Ask Samara."

She shot him a deeply dissatisfied look.

"You didn't say a goddamn word the entire mission."

His eye glinted sarcastically as he tilted his head, eying her, and said, "I think I know better than to open my mouth around a Justicar. I value keeping my head in once piece. Not my fault if you wanted to interrupt my calibrating genius to _'talk about your feelings.'_"

His deep voice was warm with satire that teased her smile into laughter even though he saw she fought against it and failed as hard as he had tried not to stare at her waist. Relief washed over him in a magnificent wave to know, that even after everything, he could still lure out her rare and quiet laugh.

"Shut up, that's an order."

"You know, if you want to get all emotional on me Shepard, I think I saw an advertisement for an Elcor reading of your 'Hamlet', I hear its only supposed to last fourteen hours –"

"Dear god, no –"

She was fighting against laughter, trying her damnest to hold it back, looking all around but never in his eyes. He saw this and pressed harder, his voice dripping with feigned seriousness. She was shaking a little bit, stifling back the laughter, trying to hide the little tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, and he, amused beyond all reason, put his face close to hers and said,

"I'm just saying that you haven't lived until you've experienced Shakespeare in the voice of an Elcor. Don't blame me for being cultured –"

Her eyes finally dug into his for just a moment before she turned from him and set off walking with an almost violent suddenness, and he trailed her quietly smirking inside, victorious in having punctured her anger and disappointment, even for just a moment, with his idiotic humor that only ever worked on her. His long legs striding, he easily caught up to her as she cut through the hustling crowd. He slipped next to her, watching her turn her long neck to navigate the mob, and he wondered what she was looking for.

"So aside from you bowing out of bribing me with new clothes –"

He caught her eye and she glared hotly into it as they turned a corner, falling into easy rhythm beside each other,

"You still haven't told me what you planned to do here by yourself."

He saw her skirt her eyes around uncomfortably and shake her head as they waited for a Hanar to drift serenely past, as he watched her slide her eye longingly across the busy hub into the rose tinted illumination of Zakera Café. Garrus watched incredulously, as she slid a glaring eye into his and said flatly.

"I'm hungry."

He balked.

"You can get food on the Normandy."

She looked sheepishly back towards the cafe and stared. It was so ridiculous he almost laughed.

"All this secretiveness because you are avoiding Gardner's cooking. I…don't even…"

Shepard kept her face fixed on the warmly glowing restaurant, and she stared, torn.

She crossed her arms, before jutting defensively and in rapid speed, "Look, this is why I wanted to go alone. We're only here for 30 hours and I didn't want to waste anyone's time. I'm all caught up with our upgrades and since we picked up Samara, we've gotten additional funding and I left it all up to Miranda for obvious reasons. We're ahead of schedule to go pick up Subject Zero and this is our last stop in the Serpent Nebula for some time. Look, I'm not here for any official reason other than to get the hell off that ship, so you can go back without hurting my feelings, I truly won't care, but you wanted to come, so...There it is. I'm getting some lunch. Sorry to disappoint."

It was painful to hear her justify and rationalize to the extent that he just witnessed for something as simple as a meal alone with her thoughts without the Universe threatening to fall apart at any moment. He looked into her eye which slid guiltily from his back towards the restaurant, and he shook his head, saying calmly as he realized in that moment that he completely understood her motive.

"You wanted to forget about things for a little while."

Her words hit her. From the cameras she knew were implanted in every room that led straight back to the Illusive Man's monitors, to Miranda's condescending looks every time they had another useless meeting, to the pain that it caused her to eat food cooked by Cerberus hands, no matter how kind, no matter how well mannered. She had grown tired of being unendingly surrounded by green-horned Cerberus crewmen who stared at her as she moved through the ship as if she were some sort of demi-god even as she tried to do the most mundane of chores. She felt that she was more the the quasi-captain of the massive gleaming vessel than its commander so long as she had Miranda scrutinizing and reporting on her every move, as hard as she tried to utilize the ship which was still more than halfway still inaccessible to her – and so, at the end of all of this, yes. She needed some time away.

To her, her current crew was only a mockery of what it once was, before the obsessive self-preservation of her own heart had destroyed it all. In her attempt to calm the furious anxiety that every single aspect of the new ship caused her, she quietly clung to the few members of the ship she had known in a life now gone. She had gone back to drink with Chakwas more times than she could count, hovered around Joker until she feared becoming a distraction. Of everyone - though she had not had much time to speak with the Justicar just yet, only Thane could soothe her worries, with his mastery of his mind, and the confidence she prayed to have by his age. Because his time was short, she had fought and learned from him until her hands bled and her muscles burned with soreness to pain her into believing she was still alive, but it was not enough. And, to make things worse, there had been something odd showing lately just behind the drell's sad eyes that had been keeping her from his exclusive company.

Without her masterful, melancholy assassin, and destroyed from the broken promise of her battle-scarred turian - shut away in his sepulchre as if by some wicked force from a fairy tale. Nothing in two months could stop her anxiety at how little she understood of what was happening to the colonists. In that moment, she stood paralyzed with deeply conflicting desires in a part of the Citadel she didn't care to know in its entirety. At that moment the only thing she wanted, as she had once a long time ago as a girl with half her hair missing and not enough food in her stomach, was to be a stranger again in a galaxy where everyone now seemed to know her name. She hid her glance from him, of the turian that stood quietly beside her was the only constant in her surreal world.

And now, finally, after weeks of silence and years of death, there they were again, standing on the Citadel, as much strangers to each other as they had been when they had first met, in that place beside the trees. For the life of her, her feelings for him had grown so complex that she had no idea of what to say, but at the top of her mind was the searing guilt she felt for taking even the smallest break, even if it was from a task she had never signed on officially to do, for an organization she hated, and that she knew kept he - purposefully - in the dark.

Shepard looked back towards the restaurant with longing. The turian's voice softened as he watched her, slowly beginning to understand that they may have been feeling the exact same thing as what had come to gnaw at him. He exhaled, setting his eyes back towards the café, and spoke in low harmonics.

"I just spent two months in front of a giant gun because…well…"

He trailed off, avoiding the thought, the acknowledgment the void staring him right in the soul. Her eyes slid into his again, and he leaned slightly to the side, and said to her.

"You don't have to justify anything to me. I get it."

Her eyes looked into his, which held her gently, and she nodded, but that crushing guilt tightened around her gut sank her resolve, and she couldn't even look. There he was, broken, destroyed, after losing everyone and everything including nearly his own life. In the pit of the specific depression that characterized survivor's guilt, that familiar sting she knew like the back of her hand (or at least did, before Cerberus was so kind to replace it for her) she could only stare at the restaurant, deflated. He saw the look in her eyes and decided to act, knowing that the day Jane Shepard lacked initiative was worth every second of his time, no matter how thinly he was worn, or how much he had lost.

Because knowing what he knew, measured against every pain he had ever had in his entire life, he knew her losses dwarfed his own. And yet, in spite of everything, she never gave. She never caved. He knew her to thrash, to fork her tongue, and lately, to even venture out alone for reasons not fully understood, be he knew that she would never, ever break.

He knew to the end of her days she would never lock herself in a room for months on end after living two years in a coffin. He lost his first team. She had lost an entire ship, and before, fifty to a massacre, and even before, her innocence to the evils of her species. How many more lay dead, lost or broken, he did not know. And how, after all of it, in the blood in which she waded waist high, how she still stood was a miracle. She would look anyone in the face, no matter how high or pedigreed, what title or office; with conviction immeasurable she spoke the truth bereft of gain, blind of profit.

In his heart, he decided right then and there she deserved a day away. The good, he believed, should never have to break their backs for just an hour of leisure.

"Come on. They have sushi there. Ever have it?"

Completely taken aback, she looked over to him with a raised brow. "_You _like sushi?"

His eyes smiled with a touch of mystery as he looked back at her, remarking as if it was obvious, "I lived on the Citadel for six years,"

Six years in the cultural melting pot of the universe. She never knew. Her eyes glimmered in intrigue, and now it was his to turn to feel the burn of nervousness.

" – I, er. I had the luxury of…of trying lots of foreign foods. Dextro variety, of course."

He stuttered slightly; a sweet sound she had not heard in years. 'Archangel' was so grave, and though she knew and respected the choices he had made in his life that had changed his personality even if she didn't understand them just yet, a touch of his old awkwardness coming back to haunt them made her smile with covert pleasure.

"I never would have guessed." She mused, watching him closely. Garrus Vakarian, apparently, had his mysteries as well.

"Well," He replied as he carefully avoiding her eye as they started towards the café, falling side by side, which in all his time serving with her he was entirely unused to and now very aware of, "I…would get curious sometimes…so I would meander through the restaurants late at night…after work."

Shepard didn't hide her smirk as the ridiculous image of him trying to drunkenly wrap his three fingers around human chopsticks in some low rent C-Sec cop bar flashed across her mind.

"Can you use chopsticks?" She suddenly asked, her mouth moving before her mind.

"What?" He asked, confused, tilting his fringed head curiously, meeting her eye as it was clear his translator had to work to catch the word, and she smiled a little shyly as he continued to watch her, not understanding. After all they had been through, she couldn't believe what they were doing – something so simple if it were anybody else, just a meal, alone on the Citadel, but for them - never did she dare to dream that it would ever happen, even accidentally.

They crossed the threshold into the warmly glowing restaurant, and he steered automatically (his nerves finally kicking in and threatening to throw him into overdrive, but she didn't know that) for the bar, choosing the seats at the far end, furthest from the entrance.

"Chopsticks " She clarified, saying it slowly, still smiling in her small way, her voice calm as she watched his long legs, so alien, slide gracefully around the stool. Feeling something odd glance across her stomach that felt like feathers, she hesitated for a moment before slipping up onto the stool next to him. Made for taller races, the tips of her booted toes hovered several inches above the ground.

"I…don't think we have a word for that. Chop…?"

"- Sticks." She finished, watching him curiously. He replied with a blank blink. She could tell he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Wait…humans eat with sticks? How the…"

"No, of course not – it's just the traditional way to eat this food, from our Far East where sushi was first created. I, well... I learned from an old boyfriend, he had lineage from that part of Earth...I guess I can call him that...Anyway, I am by no means an expert, but I can use them."

She openly chuckled at his bewilderment, and then met the eye of the gangly turian behind the bar who had been watching them curiously ever since they walked in, and despite the odd look he openly gave the two of them, who he only assumed to be a couple, she asked him kindly – which he did not expect for a human.

"Excuse me, but do you have any chopsticks? I'm trying to explain them to my friend here."

"Oh," Said the bartender in gentle surprise – with politics being what they were with Udina as councilor, he was far less than fond of her species, but the kindness in her voice and her smile momentarily wiped the prejudice from him mind. He scurried to snatch a few pairs from deep beneath the bar. He placed them, still brand new in their simple Japanese boxes before them, stuttering awkwardly,

"Uh, well, I've never actually had anyone ask for these before, they pretty much just came with the dishes. Most of us just eat the stuff with our fingers."

"With your fingers?" She asked incredulously, "What, with the ends of your talons?"

Blinking, completely confused, the bartender replied, "Well…yeah. What else?"

"Oh no, this is sushi, men, this is serious business. Sushi is _not_ eaten with the hands. You two are turian, you should get this; do something right, or don't do it at all." Said Shepard firmly, enclosing her many fingers around one of the plain little brown paper boxes and slitting the pretty little green sticker with its flowing kanji in two before slipping the lid from the base.

"Today I teach you both something from Earth. Watch."

Two sets of completely confused turian eyes watched a multitude of fingers slip around the simple wooden sticks with a complex dexterity they never dreamed was possible. She smiled, pleased her muscle memory had not faded after her years of eating whatever military grade slop she could get down before rushing off to do the laughably suicidal things she had planned for the day. She easily began to flex the sticks between her five nimble fingers, before proceeding to pick up various small things around the bar as the two aliens stared at her exotic, strange hands like they were seeing for the first time.

"How does that even…here can you pick up this?" Asked the bartender, gawking like a child, his livid mistrust of humans temporarily forgotten, as he set a small shot glass down before her. The two turians leaned in and watched the human nod and then easily, with the surgically accurate grip of an N7 marine, slip the ends of the sticks around the lip of the glass, twist her flexible wrist, and set it down upside down.

"That is…amazing." Said Garrus quietly and completely mesmerized, watching the sticks tangled in her fingers like it was fine art. Shepard looked at him in bemused wonder, as he stared intensely at her hand.

"It's really not," She chuckled, as his eye slid into hers, "Here."

She pulled out the ceramic rest from her box and set the utensils down carefully, before proceeding to open his box for him; his eyes transfixed upon her oval nail as he watched it slide down the base of the box to cut the flimsy binding.

"Shepard, I don't think-"

"This is what you get for tailing me. Come on, just try. If you can change a heat sink as fast as I know you can, you can learn to do this." She held his two sticks in her right hand, and her eyes met his, as her left palm opened.

Their eyes met, and two pulses began to quicken.

"Can I…have your hand? I'll show you, it's easier than it looks."

"You…realize you have about two fingers more than I do, right?"

She nodded, her grey glance so close, sparked with a life he had not seen in years, a subtle playfulness that brimmed through her serious veil. He watched, powerless, as she leaned towards him, slipping her palm, that soft, silky expanse closer to him, and yet again, he stared at those fingers transfixed; transfixed as he had the day she gave him the paper he never threw away, as the day he gave it back. Cautiously, he raised his arm, and his heart threatened to cave in from its furious beating, he slipped his hand into hers.

She felt her stomach bottom out. Before she could place the sticks into his palm, she exhaled quietly, involuntarily, as three rough, strange, long fingers slipped into her own, and somehow accidentally, a long talon grazed the back of her hand, and every hair on her body stood on end.

He saw her lips part as her breath escaped her as she gasped involuntarily, the sound intoxicating his every vein and tensing his every muscle he heard her bodies' betrayal of her mind magnified with the full extent of his superior sense of hearing. In a moment that vibrated through every molecule of his body, he watched her eyes glaze over as she shivered at his touch, her features relaxing in a way that transmuted his blood to fire.

His body speaking where could not, he stared into her hypnotized eyes with their breath still stolen, and she, turning her glance slowly into his, stared back with something he had seen beneath him once only in a bed on a ship that now was gone, although in that single moment he knew with every searing inch of him that the memory had survived.

Two plates of sushi clinked against the bar before them, beside two bottles of warm sake.

"That stick thing is the most amazing shit I've ever seen. On the house. Drive safe kids." Said the bartender, still shaking his head in complete disbelief as he wandered off, certain now that he had seen everything.

Shepard looked from the bottles to Garrus, who deliberately grazed his claw down her palm as their hands parted ways, and asked, her voice shaking.

"You ever start drinking at noon before?"

He smiled to himself, opening her bottle.

"No. But maybe today is a day for a lot of firsts."


	27. The Escapists Part II: The Leap

Chapter 27: The Escapists Part II: The Leap

He could tell she was nervous.

She hesitated as her eyes darted out over the bar before raising the small cup to her lips; quickly, just a touch too eagerly. She was nearly finished with her bottle and hadn't said much of anything for the hour that had slipped past wordlessly as he ate beside her. He watched the red sweep of her hair out of the corner of his eye; her temple rested on her fingertips while she soundlessly picked over her meal beside him.

He was careful to give her the space he sensed her body both lividly begged for and defiantly denied. She had been so adamant on speaking to him - for months, but now that she finally had him alone, by some sour fate she found herself utterly at a loss for words. There was so much to talk about, and none of it was pleasant. He understood the profound and gnawing discomfort of it. Where, after two years and two months should they start? Her death? The massacre of his team? What dark cloud drove him to Omega leave the Spectres – or for Shepard, how exactly did it feel waking up on the operating table of a known terrorist organization with nothing else in the world but a last memory of one's ship being ripped to shreds and being thrown into the vacuum of space?

And unbeknownst to her what had kept him hidden deep in the battery was the same feeling that had kept him beneath the house in Omega for the two years he mourned her. Anymore he felt that the only things he had left in the world to say were so heavy with misery and misfortune that he preferred to not speak of them at all as to not burden her, like Mierin, with his failures. After the electricity that had passed from the turian to the human with the touch of their hands, there was a certain unspoken desire between them to prolong that sweet, intoxicated feeling, although the obvious questions still loomed above them, threatening downpour, somewhere amongst the golden coral lights.

He knew she kept more truths from him than she had revealed, and he, stealing a glance at her through her red sheet of hair, wondered how many meals in her life she had slipped off to eat by herself. Although he felt Shepard, who always put others before herself was entitled to a meal out on her own, it pained him to think of her sitting at the bar in an empty room, eating just for one.

Casting his eye back solemnly into his glass, he fell into the hypothetical; wondering what he would do if he had seen her as a stranger who he had never met, in the light of a different life. That if, perhaps, he was wandering the night as he had done after his shifts ended with C-Sec, and his glance just so happened to fall upon a woman like her with eyes so wrought with quiet sadness, sitting alone in a place like that, that even back then, before Archangel had dissolved his old inhibitions, that he would have stopped his step. He would have watched her for a minute in curious reverence, and fought over the risk, before ignoring it to move his feet into slightly apprehensive motion. He would need to tuck his glance somewhere shrouded, walk over calmly, quietly, and slide into the seat beside her, and when the time was right, to ask, quietly, dutifully, if she would prefer to be left alone. Or if, perhaps, she had something on her mind.

But that was neither here nor there.

He looked down at his hands so different from hers, over the long edges of his fingers so few in their number. He knew how to talk to women; but with her he feared he couldn't, but it wasn't for a lack of practice. He had been with others before; and he found that he was not a libertine, and after so many years, far from a virgin. Off and on, the relationships ebbed and flowed over his life, and after a while he recognized that with exception of a few outliers that the beginnings and ends were always the same. As his twenties came and past, he saw that he had only ever been with the exact same woman disguised beneath a dozen different names, repeated and repeated, for years.

Things would start out pleasant with the warm pull of attraction, then swiftly become heavy, blistering – he always gave in to his body too quickly; and then after the sex came normalcy, routine, and then one by one as his layers peeled back and he showed them who he was beneath the armor of protocol that defined turian courtship, they always left. Every last one. They always had better things lined up, better options; higher ranks, higher offices, more powerful names with ambitions as boundless as the sea over positions he cared not even to waste his breath to reach for. On and on this went, year after year, until his marriageable age came and past; his ring finger still lay bare, his name bereft of progeny, and eventually, he stopped even pretending to care. This, like the stagnation of his forced career at C-Sec, only furthered to distance him from his father who wanted nothing less than from him, his first and only son, the last Vakarian, to do what was expected of every turian male.

Occasionally Solana would still send him the elegant names of the interested; educated and groomed women still looking for a name to bear, for new paint to color their more delicate faces even if it was slightly soured with his reputation, but to no avail. He knew he was only a project to them at the tail end of a good name, and that he lacked the taste for the upward mobility to feed it. He had been there and done that; walked that path of unfamiliar legs and eyes enough to find that it always led to the same place, and it was cold and hollow as his bed, even when it held two. Turian women were all the same, or at least the ones that he had met, and he could hardly blame them. Status was everything on Palaven, and absolutely nothing to him. It was as Mierin, beautiful, tragic Mierin, had accurately told him; that for his species, rank and file was in the blood. But the problem with Garrus Vakarian, was that he didn't fit into either, and cared even less.

He was, after all, not a very good turian.

Garrus set his eye firmly down between his hands, breathed, and began to speak.

"What part of Earth was he from?" He asked, pouring himself another shot into his tiny ceramic cup, careful not to spill the colorless liquor from the simple white bottle beneath his thumb and forefingers.

He knew that during her failed attempts to teach him how to use the sticks that had simply ended with them exchanging slightly nervous, more than curious looks into each others eyes as she tried to wrap his long strange fingers around the utensils that simply would not cooperate, that the person she from which had learned their use from was someone he could see only in vague outlines. That shadow on the edges of her incomplete memories, the gangly, raven haired figure at the edge of her mind named only Ghost.

He heard Shepard make a small, indistinct sound from beneath her veil of rose colored hair, and he saw her check for the second time that her bottle was empty.

"I…don't know. I can only assume Quebec, as well as me. Well. At least that's what's on the record."

He drank, immediately regretting the words. He knew he shouldn't have brought him up if he was her ex, but there was simply so much about her he did not know.

"I…I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, really it's ok."

She smiled, shaking her head a little, lightly – without a trace of anger, and turned her eye on him again.

"I don't mind. It was so long ago. I was only twelve."

His eyes narrowed.

"You had your first boyfriend at twelve?"

Still smiling but shifting uncomfortably, she drank again, speaking softly, her eyes somewhere far away.

"Well, we were just friends then, the other things came…later. It's a funny story; well, not really…I guess it depends on your perspective. He…uh…used to sneak me cigarettes between the fence links. We talked..alot. Eventually…he sort helped me…relocate."

She trailed off, and he let it go cold. Something quietly painful sparked across her eyes as she watched her past reflect within her shot glass. He moved, sensing a much longer story - he tilted his head slightly down so that he could look at her with both eyes. She noticed, and flicked her own over to look into his for a moment, but as soon as they met the blue disks staring so quietly at her, and so near, a familiar storm of butterflies swept across her insides. A hot trickle ran down her skin where his eyes touched, and she wanted, whether by the alcohol or the lights of his glance, to both continue and run away.

She exhaled, forcing down her apprehension with her last bit of sake, set the empty vessel down, and leaned into the bar. Her eyes flew up to the lights, listening for a minute to pensive music that was playing somewhere far off, and began, for the first time, to anyone, to talk about her life.

"I was born…somewhere. I never knew my parents. When I was four months old, I turned up in an orphanage on the lower east side of New Quebec. It was religious; lots of rules, lots of prayer. I…was never one of the more orthodox children...As in, my mouth moved with them, but certain things that happened, made me doubt much of what I was supposed to believe. I started acting out. Jumped off of stuff for the sheer fun of it. There's… a lot I can't remember."

He swallowed subtly, and his volume dropped as her eyes looked into his, narrowing in thought amidst their smoky black cosmetic haze.

"Your friend…he helped you leave?"

She smiled very nervously and shifted her eyes away.

"…Yes. I sort of…escaped. I…really don't want to talk about it, if that's ok."

He nodded solemnly, feeling profoundly guilty. "Fair enough…So, Quebec. Is that where you learned that language? The one you spoke when we rescued Michele?"

"What?" She asked softly, searching him. Garrus set his deep eyes in his empty cup as he placed it cautiously on the bar. He continued, forcing his uneasy voice into level flanges.

"Standard English is not your first language. I noticed a while back. When you speak, you pronounce your "r" unusually sometimes. The sound is softer. It comes as you roll air over the base of your tongue as it hovers beneath your palate. It resonates, and blends with the vowels and consonants, running the word together."

She tilted her head, trying to look into his eye that he kept firmly away. It was something she had never noticed, even about herself.

"I still have an accent?"

He nodded, and slowly turned his eye into hers; it's cobalt disk catching the light and contrasting greatly amidst the canyons of black scars.

"I heard it when you first said my name. You rolled over the 'r's in it, back in the Tower, a long time ago. Its…different from what Dr. Michele speaks. I could hear it as you spoke."

Shepard watched him in quiet awe, still leaning on her hand. Although she had long known the extreme receptiveness of turian hearing, it struck her profoundly that he could discern such small details from hearing her speak so little. She had not thought about her first language in years, since the night before she left for Omega. The night she spent in an organ chop shop as she had her first translator, something stolen from a cadaver, implanted in the side of her head that was still short from when it had been shaved for the electrodes, years before.

"Yes," She said softly, cautiously, still searching his eyes, "Chloe speaks Metropolitan French - I think she is from Paris, but the place I was raised is an old French colony across the ocean. That language…I haven't spoken in years. I learned it from…"

He saw her eyes slide past him to somewhere else.

"…from the nuns, when I learned to speak. It's a little different. I can't believe you noticed, I…haven't really thought about it in years."

He knew she was an orphan, he could see the memories of the dark place where she was raised in his images borrowed from Liara, and as much as he was starved to ask, he feared even if he even breathed a word of it, that it would wipe the glow just beginning to kiss her skin again. But against his expectations , she smiled softly as she pushed a piece of ginger across her plate with the ends of the sticks he had given up trying to use, and said,

"Is it that noticeable? No one has ever asked me about it before."

"Well. I don't know, but I hear it. Sometimes."

He watched her. She raised the ginger to her lips, caught between the ends of the utensil. He watched her eat it out of the corner of his eye, catching a glimpse of her tongue as pressed the ginger to it, and swallowed. He shifted his eyes quickly away, and drank again.

Quickly.

"Shepard."

She raised her eyebrow pleasantly, looking over at him, and he cautiously looked back, feeling a roar within his gut as it bottomed out with her look. He fought to continue to speak.

"Do you…want to get out of here?"

Shepard smiled, a true, real smile.

"You know, yeah. If I eat anymore you're going to have to carry me back to the Normandy…but…"

Her eyes set into his, grey and silvery, and there he fell unable to look away, as she asked him softly.

"…Let's not go back, just yet…would that be ok? I'm… I'm really enjoying the escape."

He looked down, something rushing through him in quiet waves.

"Whatever you want. I'm…not ready either. Its…"

His eyes fell back to her, his chest tightening.

"…Been awhile."

He couldn't see her knee shaking. She crossed her leg to conceal it. She only nodded, forcing herself to breathe, as she said, stacking her plates for the bartender, "Well. You lived here six years. Why don't you show me around?"

He stared.

"Shepard, I'm no expert."

Her brow knit, and she tilted her head quizzically, daring that cautious, thoughtful half-smile once more, but yet she kept her gaze, silently shaking in adrenaline, from the blue rings of his.

"Don't be modest. I'm sure you know your way around every corner of this place. It was your job, right?"

His heart was pounding beyond control.

"Well…what do you want to see?"

Her eyes fell upon his hands, and stayed there, subconsciously, as her thoughts began to meander across them with the spires of his fingers.

"Everything."

* * *

Six hours, a thousand passing faces, and several dozen store windows containing things both exorbitant in their luxury, overdone in their tactical oversight, and crass in their pretension later, the two had slipped through every turn and twist of Zakera ward, side by side, taking their time, recognized by no one, their omnitools shut off without a care. On more than one addicting, furiously unnerving occasion, their hands or arms occasionally brushed, by carefully orchestrated accident.

He stood beside her in yet another store, watching the blue glow of an aquarium light the soft lines of her face as she observed a shining school of thessian sun fish hover in the deep water behind the glass. He saw her smile, fascinated; her eyes traveling over their strange gossamer bodies gently swimming in the ripples. Shepard tilted her head the other way, the light almost violet against the sheen of her hair, and put her face closer to the glass, watching as a steely looking eel indignantly thrashed out from its coral hiding spot and tried to snap at her through the tank.

"What's this one?" She asked in curious tones.

The very confused asari shopkeep shifted her eyes from the hideous eel to the human staring in quiet ardor as the eel tried to headbutt its way through the glass to kill her while she gazed at it pleasantly.

"_That," _said the maiden, gesturing bitterly at it with a long purple finger as she packaged blood worms into a container to feed a different tank, "Is a khar'shan snapping eel, and it is a bastard. I would highly recommend _not_ purchasing that one. It's vicious beyond all reason."

The asari cast her eye to Garrus, who looked at her indifferently, as she said in complete seriousness.

"They should all be destroyed."

Garrus smiled inwardly as he turned his eye back to watch Shepard as she placed an oval nail to the glass, and teased the fish with the tip of her finger, until it sank its jaws into the side of the tank so hard it chipped a tooth, sending it into a blood frenzy of whirling and snapping.

Shepard smiled kindly at it.

"I'll take him."

The asari's eyes widened in terror, hands stopping to hover over her work.

"Are you…insane?"

Shepard gazed lovingly at the unsightly, psychotic fish.

They watched as the eel began to violently bury itself into the sand, rabidly biting pieces of coral off of the surrounding environment to spit at the other creatures out of pure fury before forcibly burying itself beneath the grains.

"Ohhh he just needs some love." said Shepard with a genuine smile.

The asari stared at her, mouth open and aghast in an interesting medley of disgust and fear.

"You…have some crossed wires lady."

Shepard smiled a touch cynically, nodding in agreement.

"True. Now let me have him, and one of all the others."

The maiden rolled her eyes.

"Whatever. No returns. You can make the payment over there, and I think it's female. And we're not liable for when it bursts its way out of your tank to try and eat your face off."

Shepard smiled hugely; brightly ignoring the pure hatred the young asari directed at the eel at which she still glared furtively as she moved behind the counter.

"It's female? _Really?"_

The asari flicked her eyes from the wordless turian calmly watching the whole ordeal to the clearly mental human, enchanted with the murderous eel, and spat,

"Uh. Yeah."

Shepard beamed, standing up straight as she crossed her arms and smiled down at the sulking, psychotic eel with a look like she had just won the lottery. The turian watched, bemused, as she leaned into the glass and whispered to it,

"Well 'Miranda', we're going to be great friends, aren't we?"

Several minutes, three shopping bags full of fish suspended in cryo boxes and one more horrified, pitied look from the asari later, Garrus and Shepard made their way out of Citadel Souvenirs into the early evening crowd as he listened to her delightfully chirp about her new pets as she floated on beside him, anthropomorphizing each one - happier than he had ever seen her in all the time since they had first met.

"And I'm going to call the puffer fish 'Jacob', and the little gimpy one that nobody wanted 'Joker' – I'll have Mordin fix him, it's just a busted fin, and the depressed water-gecko will be 'Thane'-"

Garrus interrupted, shaking his head as his eyes shot up to the ceiling, the moment too surreal for him to believe.

"I can't believe you bought that thing. You and your lost causes."

She only smiled.

"Garrus, don't you know by now that I only collect misfits? Especially the alien ones. You know, people say I have a weakness."

Their eyes met, and her silky smile sent his head snapping the other way. He stammered.

"Don't tell me you're going to want one of those ridiculous hamsters next –"

Shepard's eyes misted over with joy as the thought blossomed in her mind. There was room for it on her bookshelf, besides the desk that Miranda's overachieving kept defiantly empty.

"Don't tempt me turian, I haven't named one after you yet."

His eye caught hers impetuously as she continued to smile with what he could see was deadpan sarcasm, but before he could protest the sheer ridiculousness of it, a deep krogan bellow rang out and caught their attention, slowing their step.

"-I heard that those lakes up on the Presidium are _filled with fish_."

"You ever been up there?"

"No…C-Sec won't let me…they say I'm a risk…"

"Ugh…they think all krogans are dangerous.

"Damn turians…we should ki-"

They turned, eyeing Shepard and Garrus, who stood unabashedly eavesdropping. An uncomfortable moment passed as both parties mutually realized they had been caught. The two krogans shifted their eyes from Shepard to Garrus mutinously, as dual sets of violent krogan eyes traveled from the tall turian's deep cut face, and down the fissures of his nearly destroyed armor.

"What are you looking at, _turian?_"

Garrus tilted his head oddly; poisonously. Not blinking even once, he casually leered at them through the visor that was already scanning through their biometrics for weaknesses, his voice phlanging low and deliberate as he looked from one to the other as the air seemed to drop twenty degrees in temperature.

Archangel had slaughtered whelps like them for sheer amusement.

"Nothing."

He said in level harmonics, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Apparently."

They stared at each other. The turian did not move a muscle.

It was at this point Shepard stepped in, swiftly taking charge and moving to diffuse the conflict even at its hint, though she kept her eye fixed on Garrus, who coldly observed the krogans behind his long black scars with a look she hadn't seen since she had found him, or at least, part of him, on Omega.

Deep down, something shifted feverishly inside her – dripping down her spine like hot oil. She shivered, her mind awakening to other thoughts, but she ignored them, for now.

"What was this I heard about fish on the presidium?"

The krogan on the right eyed her suspiciously, flicking his eye between her and the scarred turian, who still stared him down without a shred of regard. Beside him, the krogan to the right, younger than his companion and far wider of eye looked at her suddenly with an almost innocent curiosity.

"What, you mean there actually are some?"

Garrus watched, as she tilted her head back at him with extremely well acted incredulity.

"Well _yeah, _don't you know anything? Why have all that water if you aren't going to store anything to eat in it?"

The young krogan's eyes grew huge, and he swooped to jab his finger in his friends face, who snarled and eyed him in return with deep animosity.

"I TOLD YOU!"

He swung his massive head back to Shepard, baring his horrifying krogan teeth in what may have been a delighted expression, but just ended up looking murderous, though she could the difference. Krogans held a special soft spot for her, against all her better reason.

"You….you've seen them?" He asked, eyes glittering. She couldn't help but smile.

"Yeah, me and an old friend – an Urdnot – we used to catch fish up there all the time on off days."

Garrus tore his eye away from the mercs to shiftily look at Shepard, lying expertly besides him. His sight and ear trained from his years spent in interrogation, he didn't need to exert much effort to see instantly that she was good. He wondered when she had told her first lie. The krogan on the right interjected with sheer awe.

"You – a human–knew an _Urdnot_? We're Urdnot!"

She nodded solemnly, looking into his eyes with sober reverence.

"Yeah, Urdnot Wrex. They let him up there, you know. Too much of a badass to keep out." She nodded her head to Garrus, keeping the krogan's curious eye, "I was just showing this turian some of the tricks he taught me."

But before the older krogan could even begin to gush, the tense moment completely forgotten, the younger interjected desperately.

"Do you…do you have one now? Can I –"

His eyes glittered hugely.

"Can I see one? _I'll pay you for it."_

Shepard looked at him almost warmly – his earnestness was edging dangerously into territory no krogan should ever, ever in the natural order of things belong.

Cute.

And suddenly her face sparked with life, she played into it fearlessly, as Garrus stared on, quietly observing.

"No," she subtly teased, deliberately pulling her bags in tighter to her person in the feign of protectiveness, "I went all the way to the Presidium for these – you don't think I'm hungry? I had to smuggle them all out through about ten checkpoints in these gift shop boxes – but I got an in with C-Sec, ended up slipping by...Why should I give all my hard work to a random krogan?"

She caught Garrus's eye, her mirror like lenses glinting in hidden pleasure that only he could see. She watched him exhale deeply and stare back in patient disbelief, shaking his head slowly as all the ship models she had dragged him into various stores to buy for Grunt earlier in the day came flooding back before his memory. He tried to tell her that the idiot would just end up eating them, but she assured him that the kid needed to learn some fine motor skills and an outlet that didn't involve bloodshed, and besides, _it's not like he doesn't have three stomachs anyways, he'll be fine if he eats some plastic if he gets curious_.

Her and krogans. It was hopeless.

"I-I'll, I'll pay you _alot_ for it!"

He spread his arms wide, like a little kid. She smirked softly, wondering how old he was. She let out a theatrical sigh, feeling a tinge of regret at how eager he was to fork over his money.

"Oh alright. But you don't have to pay me."

But the young krogan raised his fist, impassioned.

"Udnot Kargesh pays his debts! Accept this, human! Many have _dreamed of this day._"

Shepard watched as he whipped out the credits chits and held them eagerly in his giant hand. His companion scoffed deeply, protesting sharply as he stared at him in horror.

"You were saving that for a new gun!"

The other krogan shook his head impatiently, "This is a _fish. A real fish. From the Presidium. Do you think I'm a moron? Fish are better than guns!"_

The other krogan stared incredulously, saying quite simply, "Yes. You are an idiot."

Shepard looked at the chit a bit guiltily. He knew he wouldn't say no, but by the look of their armor, it probably was for the better that she kept another gun out of a young, naïve krogan's hand.

"Sure." She said suddenly, feeling Garrus's quiet eyes on her as she reached into her bags and pulled out the cryo box of a good sized koi, "Here you go."

When she passed the little alloy box to him, and his massive alien hands opened it with glee as the fish sprang to life with the oxygen, she had never in her life seen a krogan actually look like it would cry out of sheer joy. She honestly didn't know it was possible, but it brought sunlight to her heart. She had never seen a krogan happy before.

He slowly turned his eyes up to her, guttural voice shaking, "Th-thank you, human."

She shrugged, figuring it was probably for the better.

"Sure."

Turning back, she caught Garrus's glance, who was watching her with something strange in his eyes she could not read. She tilted her head towards the transport hub and courier kiosk in a way that said, _Let's go. _And so he watched her reposition her shopping bags in her hands and they turned away from the two krogans, the older incessantly swearing at the smaller, who was still staring in wonder at the gently circling fish, as they heard him say with undeniable joy.

"_I'm going to eat it!"_

"IT'S JUST A DAMN FISH!"

Garrus heard her soft laughter behind her hand all the way back to the transit center, and he wondered, why she only ever seemed to relax far away from the company of her own species.

The question had long gleamed in the back of his mind, ever since she had let him in her room on a night he never forgot, years that felt like seconds ago. The mystery scorched in his mind as he watched her walk amidst the crowd of strangers from different worlds, her hair shining beneath the glowing signage.

She sent off the idiosyncratic content of her bags with a teenage salarian courier who was so skinny he looked as though he would fall over from the sheer weight of them. She made him vow his life to her fist through chattering teeth that he would not speak to anyone on the Normandy about their whereabouts when he made the delivery. Refusing to let their day end, she rented a sleek red car and tossed the keys to Garrus, who caught them and looked to her in disbelief.

"Just drive." She said, slipping in the passenger seat as the glossy gull wings opened, as nonchalantly as if it were her own vehicle. "I don't care where we go. I'm not ready to go back."

He simply stared at her, the curves beneath the flame, dripping in inky leather. The day just kept getting more and more like a dream. She had never, ever, in the entire year they had spent on the first Normandy let anyone drive anything but her – the Normandy not included. He watched her adjust the gleaming seat back to recline, cross her long legs as she slipped off her omni tool entirely, and threw it to her booted feet, where it lay forgotten. She stretched and eased back into her seat, almost alluringly, almost by accident. She slid an eye to him, who just stood staring, keys in hand.

"Coming or not?"

Unreal.

His mandible flicked against his will, and he spoke, tones low, sounding like someone else entirely for just a moment, and it caught her ear like velvet.

"Yeah…Definitely."

He got in.

Turned the key.

And they drove.

It was later now, the events of the long and dreamlike day – so out of place, so rare in its calmness – starkly normal against the fever of their mutual trauma, almost, somehow, forgotten. The nightmares they had lived through and refused to acknowledge were pushed mercifully to the edges of their heavy minds by the simple pleasure of their accidental day, their unyielding stress lingering only slightly as the last touches of the sun lamp dimmed to the night cycle. He ascended the vehicle sharply, driving far too fast into the whirring, streaking tail lights of the early evening traffic.

She slyly turned her eye to him.

"Trying to impress me, Vakarian?"

And to her surprise, he laughed softly, and turned the car on a pin, expertly around the glittering spire of an impossibly high sky scraper. His voice slipped into her ear in its harmonic seduction.

"Shepard,"

He sunk his eye into hers, gleaming in the dark.

"You know I don't have to _try_ to impress you."

Her jaw dropped, as a laugh came tumbling out. She had almost forgotten how cocky he could be when he wanted – but she could never tell if he was serious, and that sound to her – the specific timbre of his confidence, was the most beautiful sound she had heard in months; it told her he was still alive, that he had against all odds, survived; that deep beneath the scars, a part of him had not changed.

But right next to it, sharing the same space now in tighter quarters, something else had.

She, entranced, watched him slink his glance back over the steering wheel, and she could swear his eyes, sweltering slightly, smiled in a most satisfied way as he leaned ever so slightly back as he drove. Privately she watched him, her eyes slipping down his jagged silhouette, as he adeptly pretended not to notice.

Turning, she watched the impossible towers grow smaller and smaller below as the atmosphere thinned around them, and a few stars began to show between the leviathan pentagram arms that filled their entire field of view, inlaid with the neon circuitry of the floating metropolis encrusted to its wings.

Minutes passed. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the whir of the atmosphere rushing by. Magnified by the silence, a low harmonic voice asked from her left, in a voice like silk to a tired ear.

"Shepard…Can I ask you something?"

His tone…there was something there. Nerves fired through her like shock waves. Immediately on guard, she fought against them, working to reply, keeping her eyes outside the window at the city floating around them in every direction as they raced into the night.

"Yes?"

He turned the other way, watching for traffic in the opposite direction. The way he turned his head – so sharply, a slight but definite motion no human would or could ever make; she stared, completely taken for a moment, lost, entirely, in the foreignness of it. The grace.

"There's something I've been wanting to ask you for some time now, but we've never gotten around to talking about it, and for about two years, I thought we never would."

He turned to look at her with a daring that was at odds with what she had seen for most of the day. She swallowed hard as his eyes pierced her, forcing her - unable to look away, and she replied, as coolly as she could,

"Well, get to it."

Slowly, he tilted his fringed head back on his serpentine neck, as he surveyed her down his plates with eyes that did not once yield in their intensity.

"I mean no offense, but…"

The pounding of her heart was threatening to tear itself apart. She sensed immediately what he was going to ask, and it descended on her like the asteroid that it was, circling her planet on an unavoidable crash course, since she had discovered it in the eyes of a stranger, a long time ago, when she was fourteen years old.

"…what is it with you and aliens?"

And her blood turned to the most frigid ice, just as something else became very warm.

"…What…do you mean?"

He hit the accelerator, driving faster.

Purposefully.

"I mean exactly what you think I mean."

And he turned his eye into hers and the flames consumed her alive.

But she forced her voice out, her robotic mask of indifference descending into full effect.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

But his eyes blazed on; different somehow, as he dipped the car down deeply, sending her thrashing stomach into her throat.

"Don't lie to me. I know you're good, but. Well...We know each other. And as I recall…"

Her brain, firing faster than it had done for anything she had fought in the time she had been awake, began to desperately work against the question which pinned her to the seat with sweat just beginning to work a stream down the nape of her neck.

"...We've had some good times together, too."

She couldn't hear her thoughts over the maelstrom of her pulse.

"Well," She said, tilting her head and her brow back carefully, determined not to look at him and have her whole artifice dissolve,

"…You know I could ask you the same question."

He turned his head amidst its silvered fringe swiftly back to stare at her, seeing a touch of triumph beginning to turn at the edges of her lips.

Anger and intrigue flashed hot across his gut; as he realized that he had miscalculated his move. But he breathed, and shifted his head back, considering.

"A question with a question…" he slipped, flanged voice low, shrugging slightly,"Evasive maneuvers...interesting. But there's a flaw there."

Her expression -challenged - just where he wanted her – darted back into his.

"And what would that be?" She asked curiously, eyes firmly set to his.

His eye snaked meet her, catching the light in its azure lens amidst the streaking neon dark.

"I seem to recall, back on Omega, a certain red-head promising to tell me anything I wanted to know…"

Her eyes widened, as his slipped back into the rushing horizon.

"Anything, she said, in the universe – if I would just trust her, again…"

Her hands.

Her hands were shaking.

Breath, stolen.

Infrequent; everything freezing, everything blistering.

His eye, most blistering of all.

"Well Shepard, you're the last person I have left to trust. So. I think I'll take that promise now, if you don't mind."

Her eyes fell to her knees, as her lips began to quiver as she realized she was caught.

Caught on the edge of a cliff so deep, so long in the making, she could not with all her strength or intellect see the bottom of its endless depths. And in that moment, pushed to that edge with the slender footing of her inhibitions and fears crumbling like rust beneath her foot, she surrendered, and leaped.

Into faith.

"Alright, Vakarian...You win. I'll tell you. But it's kind of a story, and if you want to play hardball with _me_,"

Her eyes glinted fiercely, enticingly, into his across the space which seemed to be shrinking smaller every vibrating second,

"…Then I'm going to need to call you out on your bullshit as well. You said you'd buy me a drink – whatever I wanted, in fact. And the way I see it, we've got over thirty hours before we have to leave for the Normandy."

"Didn't get enough back in Zakera?" he teased, drifting the car into precise vertical climb as they slipped from one arm of the Citadel's wings to another. She scoffed, leaning back in her seat, head tilted deeply back.

"That was noon, that was nothing… and that sounded suspiciously like a challenge."

A grey glance met a blue one, as something devious played in the space between.

"Well, where do you think we're going?" He pressed, his voice slippery and level, not daring to back down even a fraction.

"Splendid." She replied predatorialy, eyes narrowing to slits, as something dauntless crossed her mind. "And I'll raise you that, _Garrus_, and make you a deal…"

He both loved and feared the sound of that.

"One shot, one secret."

Oh did he feel the smile of fortune wash over in an awesome wave. He stole his eyes back into hers, and threatened inkily, knowingly, as his eyes slipped down her frame, tiny compared to his.

"Alright Shepard, challenge accepted. I hope the floor doesn't hurt too much as you hit it – when I drink you under the table."

She smiled, red light glancing over her colorless eyes, which held their secrets firmly in place.

"I'm so glad to know that even after everything, you are still an arrogant son of a bitch. Now where are we going?"

His eyes, gleaming with patient anticipation, smiled as he descended them down into a hustling epicenter of multicolored nightlife moving in the starlit current towards a single glowing entrance.

"I don't take it you've ever been to Purgatory."

And at this she laughed at the sheer irony of the wordplay, as the doors swung open, and they slid out.


	28. The Escapists Part III: Through

Chapter 28: The Escapist Part III: Through

For once, she followed him.

It was the largest club she had ever seen in her life; she knew of its existence, everybody did, though she never had the time or care to step foot in its pulsing hollows. Before her, Garrus melted without a sound into the distracted evening. By his gait alone, it was immediately apparent that he knew the area with a complex understanding of its layout. It was almost impossible for her to believe that he had not been the Citadel since their parting of ways over two years before. The moment his dual toed boots touched the glassy pavement his entire countenance changed like mercury. He moved like liquid; surely, alert – his head snaking towards sounds and faces that caught his acute attention – he was moving like she had never seen him move – a part of everything, yet invisible.

She could see him automatically - so practiced it was second nature, sifting through the faces for potential threats, his eyes sliding around the edges of the mob for escape routes and contingencies. She watched the subtle movements of his body closely, seeing with her predator's eyes all the little things that spoke of his training, his experience, and his time on Omega. She knew the way he sliced through the crowd was nothing he learned through C-Sec, the military, or even Spectre training.

He had changed; hardened and folded like a sword. His old righteousness had been tested by the galaxy and was promptly thrown asunder; and it spoke to her. The whispers of his body told the story where he would not, in all the tiny details obvious in his face, the memories in his eyes, the lethality in his step. Perhaps it was the way he moved – a part of the darkness, a piece of it. Her eyes took in and memorized the new sway of his shoulders, the turn of his stare. Sinuous. Deadly. She had met him as a Turian who had an idea of how the world should work. But now she saw that his naïveté has died with her, and when she awoke she found in his old skin someone who knew now not how the galaxy should work, but how it truly did, in all its monstrous veritas. The things he had learned amidst a fallen kingdom; a knight without his queen.

She didn't even recognize him when she had found him on Omega; she could still recall the cold glow of his eyes; hollow, like an animal. Though over the day she had seen the old stitch work of his soul peeking through the dark mantle now cast over him, something quietly unnerved her, something she had been seeing for months. She had noticed it with the Krogans before; there was something unplaceable yet definite about him that was intimidating. For the first time ever, she wasn't so certain anymore she could take him in a fight. And in some hidden corner of her mind, this thought bothered her; and seduced her.

She wanted to see what he could do.

Something about the air - thick with the gathering line of dozens and dozens of strangers queuing up in a massive throng outside the closed double doors of the club's main entrance – was exhilarating. Provocative. Even outside amidst the endless stream of glittering cars pulling up to release their perfumed contents onto the sweeping curb, she felt her heart race with the music.

It had been over a day; they weren't supposed to be out. They should have checked in. They should have called someone, anyone. They should have, but they didn't.

The rules and protocol, formalities, standards and practices – everything, everything she had clung to for the past decade of her life; everything she had fed and watered with her sincerest efforts to play by the narrow military orthodoxies that defined the only semblance of control she had over her life were gone. Everything she had worked for, her life's work; gone down with her ship as she awoke to find she had been abandoned to Cerberus. Through inaction and coverup the Alliance had betrayed her – even though she had given them everything; her whole life, and the heart of the Turian she almost gave herself to, the only person since her destroyed childhood that had had broken through her armor. Gone. She gave it all to her career, to the talking heads she knew only by name and hologram, and they simply discarded her, after using her for training and propaganda. Anderson's hands were tied to the desk Udina chained him to, and though she could see him visibly struggling to shape things into function, he was like Sisyphus pushing that fated stone up the hill, only his was the size of the Citadel.

Now, after all she had done, after all the lives she had saved, and scarified – her own included – everything, even her heart which had come so perilously close to that thing called trust that everybody talked about and no one seemed to have. The opening of the far dark shores of her life's secrets to a willing recipient two years prior on fiery sheets - interrupted by her work, and now mocked by it. Ship, gone. Crew, gone. Friends, missing or snapped shut by the logos on her clothes that still didn't feel like they were her own. Her Spectreship was just an empty title reinstated in secret – hollow words completely bereft of support, funding, or weapons by a fresh council quick to appease a ghost, but slow to believe she had truly returned - to haunt them.

The rules, the law, the society she fought for the progenitor and conspirator of the injustice that was everywhere – of the rampant lies and blaming, the subtle hand of fascism in the streets. In her mind every moment of every day were the colonists the Alliance wouldn't touch to save, for it would necessitate the fabrication of a better cover-up than the Geth, the galaxies' most dependable scapegoats. It was too much to take; too disorientating to see the true enemies in the spinning room of her mind, and too heavy to breathe. But through it all, through the anger and the emptiness, now strode warm and alive and right within arms distance the greatest regret of her life; sheathed in broken armor, stalking through the night. The last thing she saw as she faded into the weightless cold of those emptily shining stars now walked right in front of her, slicing a swathe of fire before her curious eye, as he moved in a way she knew he could have only learned as someone else, with a very different name.

He led her and she let him, trusting for once to be the follower, into water she had tasted only briefly, and dreamed of beneath consciousness in the spaces in between, since she was fourteen years old. In his step she watched, transfixed - a river. Water that moved with him, a part of him; a hidden thing from deep within her psyche, a serpent that slithered just beneath the white-bread surface of societal expectations, doctrine and protocol that she had failed to make her garden of Eden. She walked now in the company of someone from somewhere else, somewhere very far from home. Somewhere she thought, perhaps, she liked a touch better, though she had never been there – and perhaps this was why. A different world; not made of the fragile paper that used to hold her dreams of stars or planets, or the illusion of control through military order. No. Casting a slow look back at her over his jagged shoulder, he slipped into her eye and captured it. There, in lenses like skies set within black scleras was the sinuous glance bred only in the eye of the habitually noncompliant, the rebellious and the lawless. A world that glistened, beckoning her; alien and seductive.

Just as she had as the blasphemy of youth and mercilessness that smiled, still dripping in Batarian slaver blood, as she watched Omega slide out of the frame in that doomed ship so many years before - her lips turned slowly, and she quietly smiled. And just as she did then, in that moment she left something behind, something heavy, and old that she had been carrying for years.

It was as a wise Krogan once said, 'Each person has two shadows: death, and fate.'

And as her heart continued to smile at her tragic and utterly ironic powerlessness to it, she realized that she had already met the shadow of death, and walking right in front of her, obvious though she denied it completely, inexorably, for the sake of remaining unattached to anything that could hurt her, was the other shadow of her life. Her fate. The only person she truly trusted.

She wanted him, and she accepted it.

She wanted him bad.

Time and their path wound past in a blur; he walked swiftly, eyes wide and sharply observant, as he led her past the long line of multicolored aliens waiting to get in amidst their tangible anticipation down a narrow, dark lit alley that one would easily miss if one did not know where to look.

She said nothing; she could hear the pulse of the music vibrating the very walls of the massive building as he led her down into an entrance hidden in a pit below the ground level.

"How did you know this was here?" She whispered, intrigued. She caught the smirk in his glance as they went around a corner until they came upon a caged off door beneath the glow of a bare light strip.

He had his secrets too.

"That, will cost you a shot_._"

He sank his eye into hers, the one behind the visor.

_"Commander."_

In the blue neon twilight towered the most massive Turian she had ever seen, leaned impressively against the door. Shepard keenly observed; her eye flicking from one alien to another as the bouncer set his acid green gaze on her in immediate and adroit recognition; his eye lingering over the edges of her face, the wheels of his mind turning. Wryly, he exchanged looks with Garrus, who met his eye with a small gesture like a nod that she couldn't quite place, credits changed hands, and the doors opened for them into another place she hadn't been. It was obvious he knew what he was doing.

"So who am I really with tonight?" She asked quietly as they slid in, side by side.

Her eye looked up to those perilous heights, and pinned his against the truth.

"Garrus, or Archangel?"

Their eyes together, he kept her glance as they walked besides each other, and in silk-lined tones replied with just a touch of taunt,

"That depends on who is asking,"

Eyes, narrowing.

Warmth down her spine.

"I'm not the only one with two names… as I remember."

She slipped her eyes away from his, keeping that secret for the glass.

They glided through the pulsing rave, the natural born hunters already invisible and immune to the wayward glances of the affected, the high, and the inebriated. They ascended stairs, skirting the edge of the manic droning neon of a mid tier dance floor to avoid the steaming throng of bodies; he slid the tips of his talons across the small of her back, beneath her jacket as they were forced close for a moment as they pushed though the crowd. The skin on the nape of her neck exploded in heat, her heart dropped, and several glazed moments later she didn't remember how they ended up in a table near the bar.

He looked at her, and she looked at him. At some point she selected five shots for him, and somehow they appeared, but all remembered was him and the look he gave her, long across the table.

He pushed one of his across, something deep and golden, but she didn't care what it was. She drank it, only looking away from him to close her eyes, as it burned all the way down to her stomach.

His eyes, almost alight in the artful dark.

"Thane. What is he to you?"

She laughed, shaking her head. Of everything he could have asked, she found that to be hilarious.

"A friend, and a friend only. I can't believe you asked."

"He seems…fond of you."

She slipped her head into her hands, for just a moment, feeling pain throng across her heart. She looked into his eyes worried that he would be angry or jealous, but she saw nothing there; just the straightforward desire to know what exactly was going on. She had nothing to hide, she found it uncomfortable as well; so she told him, with a sigh.

"Thane, is a very capable man. Thane, is one of the best killers I've ever met. But Thane…is a desperately sad person, who I am not attracted to in the least. Have you ever been around him when he has a solipsism?"

Garrus, his features in silent concern over the intensity of her look, shook his head. He could hear from her tone she was worried about the Drell, though he knew she would never tell a soul; except now.

"Well, it's very…painful to watch; so I can't imagine what it's like for him, to see and hear and feel those things all over. He's dying, you know."

The Turian stared, the words not quite clicking.

"What do you mean he's dying?"

"I mean, he's dying. He has a genetic disease called Kepral's Syndrome. Basically, he's going to slowly… suffocate to death as his body's ability to absorb oxygen degenerates…"

He watched her cross her arms at the word 'suffocate', and bow her head down to the table, before saying the rest of the words. He knew that was how she had lost her life.

"Can't Mordin do anything? Seems like something he could figure out in the elevator."

She smiled darkly, shaking her head.

"No. I asked; he said he would need a massive sample group to nail down the alleles responsible, far more resources than even we have, and about two years of his undivided attention, but by that time, Krios would be dead."

"You care about him."

She nodded, her eyes somewhere else.

"I do. For what he is…he's a good person, I think. He doesn't like to do things dirty…he takes every kill as seriously as if it was his first. He prays for every single one of them…partially, I think, because he can't forget. It's impossible for him. He killed out of revenge after his wife was murdered, which he blames himself for…and it's eating him alive, even though you and I both know, whatever he did, however merciless, was justified. You don't attack a man's family… He was never there to raise his son, and that's destroying him too…He just sits in that room, with his little cup of water, staring into nothing."

He saw her eyes looking far away, at Thane in her memory.

"He misses his wife…Terribly. He calls me something sometimes…it gives me the chills…I…have a suspicion…that it may be something he once called her…it…breaks my heart…"

"Do you trust him?"

Her head tilted to the side, eyes never breaking from his amidst the broken plates.

"You know my trust is something earned; that has yet to be seen. I know he trusts me for the moment. I helped him with his son, who was trying to follow in his footsteps… His worst nightmare. After, he sort of clung to me. And to be honest, I clung back..but it wasn't romantic...He was good to who I could talk to, I mean, no one else would. He had nothing left, and at that point, neither did I. It was just me and my empty bank accounts and Cerberus. Miranda and Jacob may have saved my life, but I don't trust them as far as I can throw them, especially Miranda. Jacob strikes me as a good soul, but he's a pawn. I like the crew enough; but they would turn on me in a second, so I try not to get attached. They don't take their orders from us... And so, in those first few weeks, it was just me and him. I was…"

Her eyes turned downward, before looking back cautiously into his, with the same haunted look in her eyes that he saw as he held her by the Mako.

"…I was…very broken…and he helped me through that. Spiritually. He prays…I haven't since I was a little girl. I thought…maybe it was time to start again…"

Her eyes tore into him behind a tempest; a suffering of regret only partially hidden behind her features, still vying for control. When she spoke, it was a whisper, cracked with tears that dared not reach her eyes, as she said slowly to her glass.

"…I...thought you were dead."

They stared at each other; a moment wrought in an orchestra of pain too heavy to bear. Her lips began to move again.

"…I looked for you, you know. For a…a long time."

"...You said..."

"…I meant it. I'll never forget the moment I realized Archangel…was you…I…was so relieved…"

Her eyes fell away. Her heart was bursting at the seams, drenched in sorrow like slender female fingers overturned their empty glass, and pushed something deceptively innocent and clear his way. He took it without question, not wincing even once.

Their eyes came together.

"How many women have you been with?"

He answered quietly, with no regret, and no shame.

"Eight."

_Eight._ A pang of fear fell through her chest.

She had only been with one. And after him, and his eyes, and his suffering - after those nights on the mattress in those rain swept buildings, she dared not let anyone touch her. Never again. Many tried, and systematically, she would figure them out, and in time, she broke each and every one of their hearts. For decades. Including his.

She looked at him directly, and asked,

"Did you lose someone on Omega?"

He looked down.

"Yes. But…like you with Thane...it wasn't like that. Her name…was Mierin…an Asari…she…she reminded me of you... And to be honest…that wasn't fair to her. She…was…very interested in me…well…Archangel, at least…I never took it anywhere."

Shepard looked at him in pity. She believed him; but it saddened her profoundly that that he spent those years alone.

"I won't be mad if you're lying, you know."

His eyes still stared down at the table.

"…I'm not. I never loved her...Giving her what she wanted, would have been…"

He looked away.

"…very self centered."

"What was she like?" asked Shepard, looking from one eye to the other.

Garrus looked at her for a long time. She watched the gear work behind his poker face turn. And then, with no celebration or ego, she watched him do something she had never seen him do in all their time together.

He slipped his visor off, and set it on the table.

She stared at him; it was like being handed a diary. A sacred object.

"I…I can't… it's your...it's private-"

"No. It's fine. Just look. There's nothing in there I'm ashamed of."

With slightly shuddering fingers, she slipped her hand around the glowing visor, still warm from his face, and turned it around to peer through it. She flicked her eyes up, seeking his permission, and he nodded, looking very strange without it. She looked back down, seeing tiny handwriting burned into the ridge where it connected with his face, in miniscule Turian script she couldn't read; eleven words spaced apart, in his meticulously careful handwriting. Not daring to raise the holy artifact to her own face, she scrolled through the manual dial she switched on from the side, and found a massive cache of pictures, numbering in the thousands.

She looked at him, unsure. He only watched.

Shepard flicked through them, as reverent as in prayer. They were of many things; each a frame in the film of his life. It struck her that each piece had composition; deliberately, she noticed. A certain poetry to the light, the angles, and even the balance of color thought the frame. Buildings, alleyways, skies, equipment, rifles, trees, ships, stars, countless objects and scenes sifted from the years of his life, all the places he had been – taken carefully, artfully, frozen in time. Feeling too guilty, too undeserving and intrusive to continue as she moved in the time signatures just before they had met, she skipped ahead to his time upon Omega, and found, thankfully fast, a blue face amidst a thousand sprawling maps of curling alley ways and districts.

And stared.

At the most beautiful Asari she had ever seen.

Back lit, she was cast in chiaroscuro, wearing a gleaming robe as she polished a rifle aside a jumble of alluring shoes – violet eyes fixed in concentration. Forever.

The woman struck her heart; she saw a story in those far off eyes.

She said nothing as she passed it back to him, feeling his sorrow as he took it back, and placed it slowly on his face, not looking as he switched the photo off.

Dutifully, she took the next shot, and waited until he was ready.

"How did you get the name. The one you gave me, on the paper."

It was only fair, after the questions she had asked.

Her hand swept through her hair as her heart tore in a scarred place beneath the artificial tissue. She watched the lights on the table as the lasers passed through the glasses.

"It means 'burning angel'…."

Her eyes closed. Regret swept again across her face.

"…Ghost…it was Ghost's idea…"

She heard another shot slip to her. She drank it without even looking; choking as she did. The breath fell from her parted lips like it was poisoned, because in truth, it was. But she couldn't feel her fingertips, and the words began to flow.

"…It means 'burning angel'…because…he said I looked like an angel…when I lit the orphanage on fire…"

His mouth parted; as he felt what felt like a fist close around his throat.

She continued, head in her hand, the hair falling through her fingers, eyes still closed – the liquor moving her lips where she would not.

"…I hated it…I…I hated it because…because I loved…"

Her brow closed in agony; perspiration throwing a vein that coursed through her forehead in sharp relief. He watched, unable to tear his eye away, as she spoke, in a trance.

He knew she had never said any of it, to anyone, before.

"…I loved it…I loved the fire…throwing the lighter onto it…and I loved more than anything else…letting all those kids go…and leaving that _monster_ there to…."

She whispered it, as he watched it fall like a guillotine.

_"Melt."_

He didn't move, as he watched her lean back – the ryncol already seducing her, as she slid back against the seat, still not daring to open her eyes, as she began for the first time to anyone in her life, to confess. Her voice was low and soft as he watched her mask fall off, shattering in the silence.

"He was fifteen. I was eleven. I still wasn't adopted…. I was biotic; but they didn't know what that was exactly then, they didn't even have a word for it…All they knew is that things would fly when I got scared or angry, and I had dreams that made me wake up screaming. No one wanted to adopt me…And I was fine with that…but they weren't. They hired a…"

Her face tensed as he watched her lips spit out the word like venom,

"…'doctor'. He came in…he had worked with other 'affected' children…He was the only one, they said, who knew how to make it stop…So one night they brought me in, after the other children had gone to sleep…They strapped me to this…chair... it had all these restraints and straps…It was to keep me still…I…I hated it. They shaved my head, and every night they brought me to…him…and he would hook me up and put enough electricity through me until the blue flashes stopped coming, the silverware stopped flying, and I couldn't remember my dreams when I woke up…We know now that biotic powers originate through the central nervous system; electrical damage to the nerves caused impedance to the flow of the fields generated by body; it was crude, but it worked..By twelve, I never had a biotic surge again... It was…unpleasant…"

He stared across the table as everything he had ever seen from the borrowed memories flashed before his eyes; the pieces falling together in a terrible symphony.

"…I used to sit in the yard, by the fence, looking out in the mornings after…and that is when I saw him. It was raining; torrential, as usual, as always. He would walk past around the same time every day. He would look at me, through the chain links, and I would hate him…I hated him, because he was free. And I continued to hate him for months as this went on, until one day; he stopped and gave me his lit cigarette. I still remember the taste. I coughed, and he laughed. Then every day after, he came to see me. He was the only friend I thought I had."

She looked into his eyes and smiled, in spite of everything refusing to be grim, before looking away after a moment.

"…When I told him why my head was shaved, and why I had the bruises from the restraints, he tried to kick the fence in. They sent him off, with cops, but they wouldn't let me talk to them, because of what was going on there – even though they already knew, and nobody cared. There were so many orphans then, after the war – no one cared what it took to get rid of them."

His face grew hot with anger. Six years in C-Sec had proved that her words were sickeningly true, even when he worked. It was disgusting how much the law looked past for sake of shielding the status quo.

"And so…one night much later, I woke up to his palm across my mouth…He always was so slippery, so stealthy; to this day I don't know how he got in. Fate, I guess. Ha. He broke me out of the infirmary without a sound, and took me…to the doctor. He had his mouth taped shut, and he was strapped to the chair where I took the treatments…Ghost's little gift…I…could have left him…"

Her eyes faded open, and stared a hole into the table.

"…but I didn't.…the alcohol was right there…isopropyl…a cheap antiseptic…they kept right out in the open…I had seen it before…and I knew what I could do…so….I pulled the fire alarm, heard everyone rushing out…Ghost held the door as the orderlies tried rushing in…but I had already emptied the jug…Ghost's lighter, did the rest…"

Grey and cold; the far lights of her eyes, as they fell like embers into his; the only thing real in the vaguely beating room.

"You know," she laughed bitterly, her eyes still forcefully closed, hair hanging in her face as it tilted towards the table, and the empty glasses of her heart. She paused, and took next the shot herself. He watched powerlessly as a small, dry laugh escaped her lips, as they curled in unhidden hatred, cured with decades of repression.

"…Liara said…after we did the mind melt thing…that it all happened for a reason…she said…that if it wasn't for all the shocks, all the…torture…I may have never survived the starvation on Akuze…the sheer force of the Prothean beam…she said…the damage to my nervous system affected my brain's response to pain…that it may have hardened me…galvanized me to levels far beyond normal…she said…I was…am… a singularity…an anomaly…and that…maybe it was all…"

"Fate."

She smiled with profound suffering, an unfallen tear glittering at her eyelash; she wiped it away with a knuckle, hard enough to scratch her skin as he watched her. The sacrifice of her entire species; all their diversity and potential, feist, resiliency, and abject refusal to simply die summed up in the unlikeliest of forms, sitting across the shot glasses, with her skin as soft as silk, her frame so small, her beauty to him an irony and a camouflage. Everything about her was refined as if almost by design; the subtlest predator. The product and the proof of the dark humor of the creation.

"Yes. Fate…You know, Thane may have felt bad when he got his revenge, on the monstrous bastards that murdered his wife. But I'll tell you another secret, Garrus."

She leaned in, eyes narrowing to slits that held hell concealed just behind.

"I don't feel bad. I don't feel bad at all."

He had read once, that Humans used sacrifice children to the god of the sun to keep it shining. The plates of his head fell into his fingertips as he listened to the truth; the ugly, unglamorous, bare truth, singed through the cold waves of her voice, and he wondered in that moment, if she were any different. He saw in that moment again, something he always knew. She was a natural born killer. A rebel. And a renegade. And nothing would ever stop her. Ever. Until the last body fell. He would follow her to the end of his days, no matter where she went, no matter what she chose. He would never leave her side. He had heard Melanis say, once in passing, an old Drell maxim as he passed her in the hall as she tried to catch Mierin's unwilling ear,

Some things are difficult, but the things worth keeping always are.

He drank her with eyes across the table, and she sensed him and looked back, and as she did, he asked that fate, quietly, if he could keep her.

Her lips moved, voice soft, eyes in his.

"So you probably want to know the last secret."

He nodded, wordless.

She set her elbows on the table, as she went to slide her fingers around the last shot. His fingers stayed her hand, and her eyes looked up to his, and fell into the azure that burned through her, across the space so close. He took the shot away from her, and set it out of reach. The game was pointless now. She looked from his eyes, so unearthly blue, to the black fissures of his face, and he watched her lenses drift down his scars with a sorrow he couldn't place. Those eyes so hypnotic to him closed behind their veiled lids, and she shook her head, leaning on the table in her last confession, and even as she said it, for the first time in her life, it didn't relieve the weight dragging in her chest.

She exhaled.

It was the hardest thing she could imagine doing. Saying what had been on her mind for over eighteen years.

"…It was…your kind that changed my life…when my own people didn't care enough to say a word."

His eyes narrowed. It was not the answer he'd been expecting. Garrus watched as Shepard swept her fingers through her hair, pulling the shining crimson strands behind her ear as she sat back in against the chair, arms folded, looking at him gravely.

"Ever ride the tram, Garrus?"

He blinked, surprised. Her answer was getting stranger by the second.

"Sure. When I lived here… Blew up a few on Omega."

She laughed, entertained by him, as always.

"Beautiful. Well, when I was young, after I left the orphanage, I sort of…"

She shrugged deeply, looking shiftily away,

"Kind of…maybe…fell in with a gang."

She saw his eyes widen, and she immediately began to backtrack,

"It was really small. I mean, tiny. We mostly just ran drugs for larger distributors…a little extortion, some bank robberies, car theft – those were fun – credit sifting, data mining, some of the older guys were enforcers – you know, nothing serious."

To her deep surprise, he let out a laugh. She looked back, incredulous.

"Why, " he asked the ceiling, shaking his head, "Why does that _not_ surprise me?"

Shepard flicked her brow down, tilting her head, "What do you mean?"

"Oh come _on_," he flanged, for the first time she heard the smallest hint of alcohol flavoring his voice,

"That whole 'good girl' act? _Give me a break. _I knew immediately. First time I saw you._"_

His eyes on her, a subtle smirk,

"Bullshit."

She smiled guiltily, though her eyes that narrowed, slicing into his.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." She perfectly lied.

He leaned in, eyes firmly in hers, voice in low dual tones.

_"Exactly."_

Shepard slid one eye with her pointed, guilty smile from his visored eye into the one aside the scars.

"Going to arrest me? _C-Sec?_" She teased, voice silky.

"Tempting. I still have the cuffs."

Her eyebrow raised.

"I won't go willingly. And you are still corny as hell."

But he didn't break his gaze, analyzing.

"Odd. I think you like that idea."

He saw her eyelid twitch as everything else on her face froze.

"Let me get on with my story."

He sat back, giving nothing. She looked away for a minute before continuing.

"…Anyway. I used to be a courier of sorts. I would go and pick things up, usually in locked boxes, and take them to their destination. I never looked inside. I worked predominately in that role for two years before I moved onto…other things. I had a good niche; twelve, thirteen, fourteen year old girl – stolen school uniform and bag; no one suspected anything. It was the perfect cover. I learned how to blend in, talk to people when I needed to, get adults and even,"

Her eyes bored into him, scintillating.

"_Police officers,_ to give information; breaks, whatever. Those skills came in handy later, as you probably can see. That was the part I liked the most…but…it didn't change the fact, that even though I had left the orphanage, I was still a prisoner. With Ghost as my partner, I couldn't exactly leave…delivering packages got to be the only time I was alone. Away from him…the only time I could think."

Her tone changed. He had to listen closely to hear her as he saw her eyes drift into the past as her voice fell low.

"I knew the trains like the back of my hand. I let them do the legwork for me. I could get anywhere, at any time, in under a half an hour. I would get the job, and do it immediately; not wasting any time. In, and out. Pick up, and drop. It never took me more than an hour…But I wouldn't return…home…"

Her eyes closed at that word.

"…Until after midnight. I never let them know. I just rode the train…all day. I would sit in the back; my hood on, the rain hitting the window, and watch all the interesting strangers come aboard…and leave. I used to wonder about them; about where they came from, and where they were going… I always wanted to talk to them, to get to know them, about their lives – their journeys…but, it wasn't my place. I think I was living vicariously…I was trapped, but those people could come and go as they pleased…and really…that's all I really wanted... So I used to watch them…all day…for two years…and that's how it happened…"

But at that exact moment, the sniper's eyes fell past her and looked into the deep black lenses of a Drell.

She sensed it, and saw his eyes move past her, the cold look upon his face, and she froze as all her instincts came rushing forth and she snapped into the present, not daring to move a millimeter.

Thane, black and shining, unwavering eyes locked with Garrus as he slid through a crowd of dancers like a demon; Miranda slithering beside him, her face lit with wrath, her eye turned away for just a moment.

Time stopped.

The Drell met the Turian's eye. They saw each other. His lips moved.

_Get out. Now._

Garrus slipped his fingers around Shepard's wrist; interrupted and startled, she looked to him, seeing his eyes dart behind her head. He saw something; she froze. His eyes slid behind her shoulder just as Thane purposefully, like liquid, stepped into Miranda's field of vision the second she would seen them as she turned – shielding them from her eye. They heard his voice; even through the distance, as the Turian took the Human by the hand, ducked, and guided her through her slightly unsteady gait as they slipped away into the shadows.

"I doubt they are here."

Miranda shook her head, her lips pulled back in quiet betrayal. She said nothing. Thane's eyes traveled over her face, his calm mind going to work.

"You needn't concern yourself with their safety. They are both more than capable."

Her cold eye turned to his, her expression souring her lovely face as she shook her head in the sourest disappointment.

"_Safety?_ I believe we are sorely at odds, Drell. Their safety is not my concern."

Thane stepped closer to her, looking over her with his eyes that forgot nothing, as he said in grave tones.

"You and I both know that this mission is suicide. Let it go."

Her eyes, made of ice, narrowed bitterly.

"Yes, but the opportune word there is _mission_. And _missions_ are meant to be _completed_. Not _abandoned_, not thrown to the side for _petty_-"

"You didn't ask her permission to bring her back for this. She owes you and your company nothing. And yet she fights with you, though you keep the truth from her, and us, in its entirety."

Miranda stared at him, expression unreadable. He continued, not raising his voice a hair.

"In truth, it is you, and your Illusive Man, that owe her. Look past this. We both know how this is going to end. Let her have what makes her comfortable until that moment comes."

She stared into his eyes with an expression unmatched in spite.

_"Comfortable? _Comfortable is what killed your wife."

Miranda always knew just where to stab.

But one can't kill what is already dead.

He opened his lips, unphased by her transparent shiv, and spoke the truth that only he saw in his terrible clarity, whispered to him by the fate that overhung them all; him the nearest to it.

"Yes. It did. And those were the best days of my life, the days I relive in my mind's eye as every night falls, and I will every night thereafter, until the darkness takes me. You... woman, are a winter. You are ice and emptiness incarnate, like the pole of a planet that once had a sun, but was abandoned by its maker."

Her breath fell from her lips, eyes becoming wide as his words seared her like a sword, in it the reflection of her father. His eyes narrowed as she stared at him, seeing her past in the dark wells of his eyes.

He spoke from somewhere else.

"You are bleak. And lifeless. There is no water left in you. You hate the things that bring others joy, because you have forgotten how to feel it for yourself. Though you have beauty, it is hollow, and contrived. Unfortunate is the man that falls for it, for you have not a single beat left in your sterile, lightless heart. I am returning to the ship. I answer only to Shepard."

He turned.

"Mention my wife again, and your ship will be missing a body."

And left her on the dance floor, staring after him as he melted away into nothingness.

There stood Miranda Lawson, staring at the truth.

Without a breath left in her body.

* * *

The door slammed shut.

Dizzy, panting, and more than slightly drunk, she threw her wavering glance through the windshield to watch Miranda saunter from the glowing entrance of Afterlife, still cluttered with people waiting to get in. She came framed by a deep, guttural bass that poured out from the open doors as she moved down the steps with her hips in sync with the music. Shepard watched her glide past the dozens of figures as they strained to get a look at her. Blithely, carelessly, effortlessly; when Miranda Lawson walked, the whole world watched. But as she turned her head, her raven, magnificent head - Shepard even through her inebriation caught something in her eyes, which were cast upon the ground, as the vision of sex incarnate made her way to the street, and hailed a cab. Shepard never saw one pull up so fast. But as the doors opened for her, she watched her turn her head; tresses the color of nightfall slid over her shoulder as she cast her eyes behind her, seeing no one.

Shepard watched carefully, as the pride of Cerberus stared long and hard behind her, before with one fluid motion she slid into the car, and was gone.

She heard the Turian exhale very slightly besides her, but she only stared, watching the taxi disappear.

"Close call."

But she didn't hear him.

The look on Miranda's face.

She had seen it before, in a mirror, long ago. Before she did something she never forgave herself for.

"Garrus."

He turned to her, a navy silhouette in the darkness of the car. Her eyes were fixed away from him.

"Have you ever been in love before?"

His heart stopped. He twitched, fidgeting, hands grasping for something to do, something to refine or busy himself with, but there was nothing – nothing to calibrate, nothing to fix. Panic. He stared at the steering wheel, sweat threatening; pain at the question terrorizing his mind. He forced down the seething well of disappointment rising like vomit in this throat, the endless sense of failure. Memories; red hair beside his arm, a spine beneath his hand, fingertips gliding down a naval. He dipped his head down, and breathed, and breathed…until he could speak again. He replied in quiet harmonics the only truth he had.

His eyes darkened, hollow in black rims.

"I tried to. But…nothing ever came of it."

Her voice.

"…I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Slowly. Cautiously. He looked at her, and she looked at him. Wordless until he spoke, the only sound in the quiet.

"I made the same mistakes eight times. And almost nine…"

Hurt so deep there was no end.

"…with you."

The words hit her like a blow, sweeping across her face as it fell in suffering at what she had done. She tilted her head down through the regret that destroyed her sanity as he watched the sadness in his eyes, which had lost everything, because of her.

Her eyes fell. Her voice became level, soft, and quiet.

He watched, seeing something lift from her, tangible; though invisible as air.

A whisper. A truth he thought he would never hear. Across the universe, through death and time.

"I lied to you."

He stared, hands shaking though she couldn't see, one mandible flicking involuntarily from the sheer force it took to keep himself together, as her eyes turned to once again to fall into him, and there he saw a light burning from her core. Pain written on her face, her body tilting, near. Towards him; he was falling and so was she, into a gravity ignored for so long between them, unbreakable – but now, everything; impossible to ignore. Impossible to explain.

"…I…hurt you."

Tears that pushed her towards him, as he watched unable to move. Hypnotized.

"…I…"

She leaned close, her lips whispering, something he'd never seen flowing through her eyes.

"…I've got a lot of demons."

But only looked at her, so close she could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, that were the only thing in sight. The only thing that was real.

_"You…were…"_

Magnetized, powerless, they fell closer in time that stretched forever, as his hands with the beating of her heart slipped against his will around her waist, his fingers at her spine, the tips of his talons so careful not to harm her, barely grazing through her clothes, her arms sliding past his shoulders, entwining around his neck, her body sliding across the car; impossible to tell if she was falling into him, or he that pulled her in.

_"…the greatest regret…of my life…I…can't…apologize… enough for… what I…"_

Arms enveloping her, coiling around her shoulders, their faces sliding, falling, drawn inevitably together in the darkness of the car. He was so warm; skin strange and hard; her lips falling to it, to the scars she pressed against - fire to her mouth as he pulled her into him with all his strength, the ceramic slip of his forehead pushing against hers, forcing, nudging, a kiss from his kind as he whispered, chords phlanging with closed eyes, the deep purring of it entrancing her, her ears energized – addicted as his voice vibrated through her, seducing every ream of logic to ash. It was all there was, the buzzing of his voice in her ear, warm; breath; vibrating - her body drifting to his lap, legs closing around his hips, pushing down and into him, hair falling across his face as he said,

_"…I never want to hear you say you're sor.."_

Her lips pressed upon his mouth.

And kissed.

His body fell as she pushed it softly against the seat, his weight nothing; her own incredible against his weakness, her force a thousand times her mass. His senses high, drugged, as he drifted back; overpowered, helpless beneath her, beneath the fingers sliding down his face, pushing on his jaw, lifting his head up and back, frill forced back against the seat as she sank her lips beneath the softer skin aside his plates, and kissed again.

Her teeth against his skin. Her tongue finding the salt there. He gasped as she began to draw upon him; sucking, teeth grazing softly at first, then harder. Inconsolable, his every sense dissolved along with his mind for everything he had apart from that feeling; paralyzed with ecstasy.

She lifted her head; his exhale audible when she stopped,_ why did she have to stop, please don't stop._ His fingers somehow clenched around her hair, the sweat sliding on his wrists from the burning plane of her neck as her eyes so close her lashes flashed over his plated cheek, whispering against his mouth,

_"I want you."_

The sound of her voice was a siren's call in his mind; those words, those three words swimming in his body, igniting every nerve, frothing into fever – her hands slipping, nails sliding up and around and past the plates running down the center of the back of his neck. Intoxicating, seducing, her hips with all their weight on his burning lap, fingers sliding through his frill, the metallic blades tracing in between her fingers.

_"..I…haven't…your a…and I'm a…"_

Her fingers sliding in his mouth, across his pointed tongue, over the sharp edges of his teeth, cutting short the protests of his mind. His tongue slipped through her fingers as she pushed his head back, gently opened his mandible, pressed her body into his and kissed him, harder; sliding her tongue into his mouth.

_"I don't care."_

Their tongues slipped together, and his mind erupted in his skull.

He forced both hands around her waist, nails biting through her clothes. Her legs tightened on either side of him; he pushed, throwing her firmly against the steering wheel, his fingers winding through the hair at the nape of her neck, claws grazing her scalp as he gripped her hard in his hand, pulling her head back to expose her neck beneath her parted lips. He leaned high over her; the wide cowl of his suit pushing against her breast, pinning her powerlessly against the counsel - paralyzed with weakness and lust as he pulled her hair tight into his fingers, erection aligned with her, just beneath his armor. She heard a clicking, almost a purr from within him; alien, strange – vibrating from deep behind his tongue, buzzing narcotically in her ear as his lenses neared, so close their faces touched, glowing into hers.

_"…What if I…"_

His mandible grazing against her cheek as he whispered; her eyes rolling closed, head falling back into his hand.

_"…You won't…"_

Her pulse throbbing, he could almost taste her arousal taken in through the scent of her that lasered through his senses, destroying everything in its path.

_"…But I've never…"_

His eyes, sliding from her throat down her chest, the seam of her abdomen, the curve of her navel, the vase of her hips, sliding over his.

_"…Please…"_

His hand, magnetized - she cried out; talons drifted from her throat down past her breast, slipping over the edges of her ribs, to her pelvis, pushing; piercing almost through her clothes; inches from nirvana.

_"…I don't want to…ruin…"_

Her hand pressed against his scar, centimeters from her face, forcing his lenses back into hers, set within the indulgence on her features. His eyes intense, flickered with sadness that reached through and punctured her; a tear formed in her eyes. Falling like a drop of rain into her hair. Quiet.

"…_You'll never ruin me …please…"_

Her fingers, so many fingers, slipping through the blades of his frill, pulling him closer, closer to her lips, which opened, as did his – a slave to her, her tongue sliding in his mouth.

_"…Please…" _

_"…I…I want to…I want to…"_

_"Then take me…I don't care where…"_

_"I think…I still have an apartment…should…still be there…"_

_"Then drive…"_

* * *

He never drove faster in his entire life.

The security guard, the same one for all the time he'd been there, definitely looked up this time as the Turian and the Human burst through the front door and headed directly for the elevator. The moment the door closed, she pinned him against the wall only to have him turn, sliding his fingers under her labia through her clothes to push her against the opposite wall, gasping – as easily as if she were a ragdoll. He pressed her to the wall, pinching her clitoris between his claws. She cried out, nearly collapsing – he caught her, throwing his hand around her throat and pushing her back to slide his tongue into her mouth just as the doors opened to his floor. She bit his tongue, gently enough, inside his mouth; he snarled a laugh and grabbed her by her elbow, forcing her out into the hall. He dragged her, furious, eyes fixed on him in desire and aroused out of her mind all the way down to the room he had not set foot in since her death, never believing for a second that she would ever see it. He prayed to whatever god there was his pass code still worked – it should, he owned it, it was paid in full – and it did.

He pushed her inside, the door clang shut behind them. He didn't bother to turn on the lights. Her hands ripped down on the breast plate of his armor, fingers finding the latches and tearing off. Unhindered she wrapped her steely little fingers around the cowl of cartilage that ringed his chest; nipping into it – hard, but not to hurt. He cried out; panting – a vibrating sound that pierced her ears and made her wet for him; his eyes scintillating unearthly blue in the dark , running his fingers through her hair, again, his claws sliding beneath her jacket and tearing it off and to the floor.

The armor fell off him in a trail of pieces leading back to the door– all clattered to the floor as their hands moved in tandem to pull them off amidst the entwining of their limbs. Moving her across the room with hands fit firm around her waist, he pinned her against his bar, forcing her – hair falling as he arched her back, descending his mouth on her neck – hard plates on soft skin, teeth sinking into her - things crashing to the floor, they didn't stop to care.

He pushed her on the ledge; arms around his neck, hands gripping between the sharp edges of his crest - her hips level with his, for all the height he had on her. His arms around her waist, he sank his teeth down – hard, but he didn't break the skin – between her neck and shoulder, ripping the fabric back to touch his tongue over her bare flesh. She gripped him harder, he pushed into her, again; his hips between hers, her legs enfolding around the steep notch of his waist and pelvis – fitting perfectly, lasciviously, blinding and overpowering – she gasped, she cried, feeling the sharp spear of his arousal aligned with the searing ache of hers, pushing her back into the bar with his teeth at her neck and his hands at her waist.

The peal of her voice as he pushed into her reamed into his mind and reverberated, drowning out all logic, all thought except the lure of the warmth from the center of her body, and the whispers of her voice, begging mercilessly, to touch her. His hearing was so sensitive he heard the quickening of her heart as her eyes met his, alien to alien, but there nothing between them now, as they clung to each other. Even through the gleaming, teasing fabric that coated her, he felt to the curiosity of his scorched mind an unfamiliar sultriness through her clothes as he glided, irresistibly, his thumb across her inseam, as the breath was stolen from her lips, and he watched her eyes glide closed.

It intoxicated her, and he fell into the spell. He moved, quickly, a shock to her - she cried an unashamed peal as he pushed the tip of his claw against her pulsing clitoris, so exposed and pleading, even beneath her clothes.

He tipped her softly back, her head falling far behind her until he caught in the angle of his elbow. His body pushed against her her as her hair slid over his skin, warming it from the cold. Her eyes closed as in a dream, her lips open and breathing as he watched entranced, moving his thumb over the silken plane of her clothes, feeling the folds of her receptive to him just beneath; the pulsing nerves growing firm against his finger tip as he moved it in soft circles, teasing her, pleasuring her, as he drank her with his eyes as she collapsed into hypnosis. He watched the addicted movements of her body, her long, impossibly curved body, moving with a mind that was no longer in control of it. Her proportions fuller, her flesh softer, so unbelievably silken, resilient; touching her made sex with another Turian feel like concrete in comparison. Breath escaped her in jagged, barely conscious wisps as the inferno where his finger played spread in wildfire across her without shame or guilt; burned and pushed to the wall as she surrendered to the waves of heat he forced upon her. Lost in it, drowning as he flicked his finger over the friction that was driving her insane, her hands moved with their fingertips she couldn't even feel, and her Turian fell helpless as her hands curled around his three long fingers - as she slid his index finger in through her lips, and sucked.

The moans that escaped hervibrated over the silver flesh within her mouth, weakening his knees; he now leaned into her for support. Her mouth was an impossible insanity of softness and moisture that upon the first touch of her tongue destroyed his mind with its carnal possibilities. He had long fantasized about them, at the hint of the warm paradise within. Her mind was gone, completely gone, as she slid her tongue across the strange, smooth digit she had watched a thousand times slinking over his trigger, sliding through his glove. She drew and drew on it, her hands around his suffering wrist, her tongue caressing underside of the smooth flesh, her lips sliding and catching on the finely meshed scales above, like sharkskin. Everything about him, every single thing, was a textural menagerie. While the hard plates of his face were like glass against her skin, the sharp edges could cut and tear. She wanted nothing more than to taste every part of him, to love and slip her lips and fingers over the things that made him different, the things that inspired fear in many, but a profound and deep curiosity in her.

She opened her eyes and looked up. His mouth was open, his eyes were staring, and he couldn't even breathe. Her eyes closed again, as in a dream, as she slid her lips straight down to the base of his finger, imagining something else as her body poured for him. His eyes were glassed with arousal so strong he couldn't reason, think, or remember anything past the open gleaming lips in the woman in his hands; half her clothes torn off and she didn't even notice, as she opened her entranced lids and pierced her gaze into his. He touched her lips with his fingers as she held the other prisoner, sucking her tongue against his nail, remembering all the times, all the memories he never thought he would ever see her again filtering before his eyes. Two years of pain. Two years of suffering.

And there she was; pressed against his desire, so warm he couldn't stand it.

_"…You're sure…"_ he whispered, looking in her eyes, but she only nodded, voice so soft, as he slid his finger from her lips, gliding the black point of his claw down the bottom, to her chest.

_"...Please..."_

He would have been lying to himself if he wouldn't have admitted to being nervous. She was intimidating as hell; but her features were softer now as she breathed so heavy for him, than he had ever seen. Her eyes never looked away from his; glossed over, caressing, her fingers slipping through his three as he held them to her chest, as he heard the small wisps of moans unable to be hidden, slipping through her lips. He could smell her arousal, he could taste it on his tongue. There was no one else in the universe he trusted more than her, no one else he had left, everything gone, everything destroyed. But her the way her hand kissed against his scar, sliding down his arm; everything slowed, everything calmed. They looked at each other in the darkness of that room amidst the indistinct shapes, seeing everything they had ever been through leading up to that single moment. He saw her soft smile – a small exhale, nervous, almost a laugh, almost relieved, as he to her surprise simply took her in his arms to hold her to his chest.

She pushed her face into him as his fingers slipped down through her hair, in a crescent across the nape of her neck. The streamlined muscles of his arms wrapped around her, impossibly warm, lifting, her legs finding their way around his narrow waist which fit her body like a key as he effortlessly lifted her carried her, across the darkness to his bed.

She was terrified, she was shaking. Sweat already gleamed on her, her skin glistening in the light of the night; silver and blue, filtering through the tall blinds of his window that was his entire wall, striping their bodies in ethereal light. Waves of burning heat and freezing cold washed over her with every step as she clung to him, shaking as her mind slowly came awake. It was real, it was real. They were past the point of no return, her body cried for nothing more than the hard plates of his skin, his bladed frill against palms, for him to push through the deepest part of her, to where she let no one dwell or enter.

The air was cold against her skin, and the sheets were even colder. He leaned and set her down. She never took her arms off him, as he laid her trembling body down onto the snowy expanse of his bed. Entranced, a moth to a burning flame, he leaned over her, and pressed his forehead to hers as he felt her eyes close beneath his kiss, his tongue finding hers, and keeping it. His body temperature was like nothing she had ever felt; so burning hot it almost hurt, and yet it was the only escape from the freezing cold around them, and when he touched her it was like a hot spring in the winter.

His eyes in hers, sweltering with his touch, she watched as he slid his fingers beneath the waistline of her leggings and pulled them past her boots, which fell away from her with two deft movements from her feet. His eyes fell upon her legs spread out before him, he had never seen them bare. Long, gleaming – the muscles lined and beautiful beneath her skin, like nothing he had ever seen. Even Asari had scales, small things one could feel with a trace of a finger or a glance of the eye, but there was nothing to interrupt the passage of his talons as he ran them up the silk stream of her thighs. She cried softly, eyes closing, instinctively turning her head, almost hiding - hiding from what pleasured her, but he wasn't going to let her. Not this time. He knew she craved his touch, he saw the tears as even then some part of her tried to fight it, the pulse and fire that consumed her as he kissed, again, the only thing left obscuring the desire she kept fighting. A black satin thong, its straps teasing up the fine bones of her hips, as the Turian's three fingers slipped around her thighs and parted them. She went to lean up, but he leaned into her once more and with his forehead pushed her gently back; her eyes flashed almost with indignation, surprise - as he took power, but no. He was going to direct; he was going to lead.

He had never been with a human, but he knew the female form, and in this case, he set his worries to the side and worked off of the instinct that rang stronger than his nerves. He pressed the plates of his mouth to the satin between her thighs, and nipped it, carefully, with his mouth. She gasped, shaking, staring, as his eyes looked up to her in the dark, burning in their glow; she writhed, almost to get away, but he pushed her legs back further, and put his mouth to her again, and watched her expression glaze, as he slid his tongue deliberately across it as she cried into the night.

He pulled away, her eyes moving back to his, pleading, lips parted, begging. He opened the top half of his clothing from a seam hidden on the side, and he peeled it off, as she stared at his form. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness that was all around, striated with the silver light, she could just make out the curve of the cowl around his collar, the ridges of the long, lean muscles of his arms, the plates gleaming and reflecting the thin starlight from his wide shoulders down the planes of his pectorals, and all the smooth skin, silver lined with earthen tones, that led down to the triangle of muscles that framed pelvis, narrow, and strange.

She stared, as he removed the bottom half, struggling a bit to unhinge the clinging cobalt fabric from the spires soaring from his calves, as he stepped from his boots, and turned, nude before her.

He was definitely far from Human, and very far from home.

"You ok?" he asked softly in his phlanges, noting the look in her eyes, so wide she couldn't tear them from the particulars of his body. Fornax had long ago given her an idea of what to expect; but it didn't change her reaction, or the heat that spread across her face as her body flushed white hot at the mere sight of him. Six and half feet tall, more slender at the waist than her and twice as wide at the shoulder; the splintered edges of his fluid metal body gleamed, wrought of long muscles that slivered beneath silvered skin that ran like water beneath his razored plates. The grace of him, the glint of of death at the end of every fingertip; he was the most beautiful, lethal thing she had ever seen, every part of him a weapon that whispered to her, barbed, and forbidden. And there he stood, with eyes that burned beneath the knives that crested his crown, looking at her, nearing her, with desire that transcended the differences that polarized their forms set irreversibly to cross; seamed by desire furnace for three long years to merge in the quiet of a stolen night.

She only nodded, swallowing hard.

"Come here." She whispered, transfixed.

He leaned over the bed, lower to the ground but longer than what she was used to - his very bed a pleasure new to her senses so high her skin could count the fibers of his sheets. She watched his long fingers spreading as he crept to her through the dark, not taking his eyes from her; entrancing her with the glow that lit them in the dark. Shivering suddenly as she watched drawing nearer, her nervousness at the hard edges of his body and pushed her to seek control. She lifted her body but in a liquid moment he slipped his hand over her stomach and gently pushed her back, again, with force back into the long pillows set behind her.

She heard the clicking emanating from him again as he slid his claws along her spine, eliciting a guilty moan, his eyes never breaking from hers, as she slid her top off and over her head. She watched his eyes fall to her bra. Black, satin; the latches in the back made for Human and Asari fingers. He drew a nail along the edge of the delicate fabric on the cup covering her right breast, and whispered to her lips,

"Please remove that. I don't want to ruin it."

Mesmerized by the glowing lenses inches from her face, by the warmth spreading from his body and enslaving hers to it as he slid over her; the alien, calming, clicking sound of his arousal filled every corner of her consciousness and tore her reason to pieces as she, barely realizing what she was doing, folded her hands beneath her spine at his will as she arced beneath his weight at her hips and unclasped the latch, sliding it from her shoulders, as she exposed to him for the first time her chest bare of ornament.

He didn't pause to press his forehead to her breast to kiss it in his way, her head pushed against the pillows as his breath washed in a torrent over her skin. Her body seized at every scrape and feather of his plates against her skin, her hands slipped around his face and fell helpless to the seduction of the frill of blades over his head, which ran between her fingers as she stroked it, igniting his desire as she knew just where to touch him, of the secret places besides the hidden folds beneath them, as rock hard his erection pushed into her thigh, and his hands gripped her with their piercing claws.

The plates of his face scratched the fine flesh of her chest like knives but she didn't care, she couldn't, at the touch of the flesh searing just against her thigh, destroying her senses hanging on by the thinnest thread. Her hands pushed down on the hard plates of his shoulders as he leaned onto her, pinning her down with his weight, heavier than the appearance of his sinuous body. His face caressed her chest, drawing to the soft circle of her nipple as he took it in his mouth; his arm wrapped beneath her spine, the plates of his bicep and shoulder grazing her as she arced beneath his body, the ring of her voice a splitting peal as he flicked his tongue over it, as he bit down a little harder.

She tried so hard to keep her grip, to keep from crying her voice into the darkness, as his teeth upon her stabbed flashes of lust down the inside of her thigh through the pleading passage of her, but she failed, she failed. Her voice rang in his ears, the most beautiful sound he ever heard in his life, almost music, as he slid his hands over her body in a hypnosis of the forbidden. He had to have her, he had tried to wait, he couldn't. He swerved his neck and slipped her hands through his fingers, arching them high above her head, pushing them against the pillows, holding them down as she began to feign a protest that almost brought a smile to his eyes. She liked 'fighting' him off, or pretending to, her limbs resisting his in a weak push to gain control, to resist, as he aligned his hips with hers, his breath in her mouth as he pressed to kiss her as he slid her thong down to the floor. Her eyes, blistering wide, opened just beneath his as he slid his fingers with their scythed claws between her labia and stroked. She writhed so hard he had to pin her down as her flexible spine arched in ways he couldn't imagine, his tongue in her mouth stifling the cries that fell from her like fire from her lips, the wordless language of her body, begging him for more.

Opening her mouth with the sharp point of his tongue, he kissed her, again, harder, one hand slipped around her throat, her jugular beneath the claw that tipped his thumb, his other hand with its fingers twice the length of hers coiled like steel around both of her wrists, pinning them immobile above her head, spreading her body out beneath him, to his mercy. He kissed her as best as he could with the hard plates of her mouth, again and again, losing himself in the opening softness of her that only begged for him to enter, the way the tears stung her eyes as he paused to look into them, her fingertips on his face, in the moans she could suffer to hold back as he kissed her, worshiping her as she dared to slide her thigh against the smooth, angled head of his erection as he moved it across her body; Turian and Human, forehead and tongue. Desperate, his lust so hard he felt like dying, he slid his hand across her hip as his kiss pushed her to the pillows, her body crying as it pulsed, her nails raking down the unfamiliar territory of his back as he pushed into her - grinding her back and in as she melted beneath the waves of him as he lost himself in movement. There was nothing, nothing that was going to stop him. He had almost had her once, he had almost tasted that feeling, the heavy release of entering, of sliding himself in from his head down to the base. He had dreamed of her too long, he had imagined it too many times. Her eyes in his, he whispered to her in his native language, a dialect not known to her translator, as he slid his fingers through the soft hair that crowned her labia, stroking, but she could barely hear a word. He told her she was beautiful, that she was all he ever wanted, that he would die for her, as he slid his fingers inside her body, as she pierced a cry like honey to his ears, clear into the dark.

Somewhere above him, his neighbors awoke in a start.

Her hands fought against him, pathetically, without a chance of success, as he pushed her wrists again to hold her behind her arcing neck, her body writhing like a flame as he refused to stop, even for a moment. The waves of his fingers pleasured her with a fierceness that cut her soul across its core. He thanked all that ever was that he had just so happened to cut his nails the day before as she slid them in and out of her, careful, so careful, not to harm her. Slow at first. In, a wavering pressure through and up and behind, then out again. Deeper and deeper he pushed, he dared; fingering deeper through the warm, her pouring folds kissing his fingers, on and on until she couldn't see, until the ecstasy took her and the lines of the room became fuzzy and all she could hear were the syllables of his love for her in a far, seductive language she knew but didn't understand - before he made the subtler movements within the living hive of her that stole the breath from her lips. The sweat rolled off of her, as her body writhed and pushed and rode against the thickness of his fingers as he slid a second in, as he promised her the paradise which lay just a few more steps upon the hill he led her as she followed. Tears fell from her as she fought weakly against the pinning of his fingers as he played her like an instrument, his long hands so steady and controlled from his life's work behind a rifle, now put to their hidden, practiced use. His face to hers, his mouth finding her lips again as he paused between the work of his tongue and fingers to whisper things to her in that vibrated in a melange of language that disarmed her; seduced her, erasing every ounce of pain and fear as he silenced her helpless cries of desire with the tongue of his kiss, tasting the tears and salt upon her skin.

Something like water flowed from deep inside of her, a natural lubricant he never knew she had; and had never encountered before. Friction among his own kind was preferred; his women had no such substance, but through the clairvoyant calm that had come at the center of the storm that was that moment, he let it slide over his fingers as he slipped them in with affection, with terrible slowness, maddening patience, through the open petals of her, running over with arousal. He closed his eyes and slid his fingers from her body, as she looked at him in tears. She wanted him to penetrate her so desperately she could only beg him please; mouthing the word, lost of her voice, her breath, her lips just moving with no sound.

He released her wrists, but she could not move, breathing hard beneath him, destroyed of any desire other than to lay with him forever. He looked into her eyes so close, his body pressed against hers, her hands now free, slipping down his frill, down the plates ridging his neck, her eyes glazed, watching. His body, so different and so unimaginably warm; she could only shiver, lips breathing, pleading him, luring him, her arms outstretched begging him into another forehead press, which he touched to her with closed eyes, unable to deny her. His hips moved in as he wrapped his arms around her body, lifting her head against his chest, and pressed his erection to the throbbing edge of her as it opened, promising her things in his own language for which the translator had no words, as he pierced her for the very first time.

He never, in his entire life, forgot the sound she made as he slid into her, or the look within her eyes.

Seven and a half inches was all the phylogenetic, cross species difference in the universe she ever needed to know. Seven and a half inches, 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and everything; right and wrong, duty and purpose, cultural expectations, differences in rank, experience - everything she stood for, everything she knew fell away, for in the moment that he pushed into her, his blood within her body, his breath against her ear, nothing else mattered. Beneath her Turian, her moral standing was lying down. She felt the sweltering blood course through him, pulsing just beneath his skin as it burned within her as he pushed deeper in. In ruinous ecstasy she melted as she felt for certain that his smooth, metallic flesh was so much hotter than her own, her only thought as the sloping, triangular tip of his head slid back and forth through her, igniting her with reaming lust that destroyed all semblance of logic in her fevered brain.

His long body arced over hers, his tongue finding hers again as he pinned her to the pillows, the striated ridges of his lengthened anatomy sliding past the bath of her desire, deepening without mercy, pushing through that aching part of her too delirious, too enraptured to protest him as he, again, slipped deep and hard inside her body. His arms closed around her, his eyes falling shut in dreamlike pleasure as he pushed in all the way into the base of him, the steep angle of his curved head so hard and smooth it felt like glass, as he began to split through her from within. Her eyes watched the beautiful, halcyon expression on his face as his plates relaxed as he began to push within her, as he he moved his narrow hips, slowly, so slowly, back and forth with patience, with no rush. She could taste his sweat as she pressed her shaking, gasping lips to his forehead as he leaned down to her as he began to give his body to her, the small female crying in pleasured, dizzied peals beneath him. The only thing she could feel was the spearhead of his lust penetrating the pulsing, aching vase of her, and the look in his eyes as they opened in their black halos to gaze at her as he began to pant and breathe deeply with his movements as he gave in to pleasure to himself as well.

He looked at her with longing; she saw the bare want within his eyes. Her hands traveled to his face, bringing him close to her, as she looked up to him and pressed her forehead to his, a kiss in his own custom. Her arms spread around him like wings as she touched her lips over his chest, down the deep cut scars from where the rocket nearly killed him, and in that moment he saw her, and the tears in her eyes, as she pressed in and kissed him on the scars lacing his chest, her mouth slipping over him as her lips fell to kiss him just over his heart.

His fingers found their way once again through her hair as she pressed firm against his body, her arms encircling his waist, her body flush with his, as she put her hands over the blistering edges of his lower back, finding the wells on either side of his serpentine spine, as she pulled him, pushed him, to the place inside of her.

He was the only thing that made her want to live at all.

She looked into his eyes, and felt the sigh he gave her ring through every atom in her being as his head bowed deep before her as she moved her hips against his as he lost all reason and moved with her, pushing her hard against his bed, and took her to give her all he had.

She made the choice then, and never looked back again anywhere, but his eyes. She was his, and his entirely. She would cry his name as he gave her everything in a spear that pierced between them, ignited and guided by her cries as he pushed her thighs back against her chest and took her for all the times he couldn't, until they lay exhausted, long into the night.

* * *

Draped over him, she slept.

He felt her hair fall through his fingers, for the thousandth time, each stroke feeling as beautiful as the first. He didn't know what time it was. He didn't care to look. The sound of her breaths slipping past his chest soothed him, the music of her body; a symphony extraterrestrial – nothing like he had ever seen or heard. She was alien to him, in every single way. He dared not to release her, to cease the dream that blazed around him, terrified he could wake at any minute, to find that none of it had happened. She came so easily for him, pouring with her water, which he more than curiously tasted, daring his bodies' resistance to her proteins, as she lay helpless as he took her, again, and again, each time easier than the last. On her back, on her side, flipped onto her stomach with his mouth against her ear, he took her and took her, forgetting himself in every strand of her hair, in every stream of fluid that fell from her as she climaxed for him, her voice so beautiful as she screamed his name, as he held her down to pump more into her, even when he knew she was too oversensitized to enjoy it. He wore her out, testing her thirst – but never, never let her take control; never let her touch him the way he touched her – no. He pushed her hands so eager to slip around him deftly away, denying her that power. When she would try to crawl into his lap to wrap her lips around the still hard part of him that enslaved her, he would push her back, flip her over, and take her again; his hand around her throat, her spine arced beneath his hand as she slid back and deep onto him as he spread her legs to enter her from behind.

She may, by the daylight, have told him what to do, and gave him his orders and his purpose, but he took his revenge and his apology to her on the knots within her soul. He wanted her to fall exhausted, destroyed, bathed in their sweat which ran together over the smooth planes of her skin, sore to the paralysis from his work on her until she was useless to the world; until she forgot the movement of her tongue to even form words. He wanted to beat her at her own game, to show her what his desire had done to him, to make her taste that bittersweet pleasure, to make up for all the times and all the things she had missed for each night he laid awake, and hoped to dream of her, in vain.

She lay across his chest, utterly gone. Sliding the tips of his talons down her spine, he felt the hairs raising even as she slept, knowing her fetish, knowing her secret, though she had never finished the story. He didn't care.

There was the morning for that.

He slipped his arms over her cold skin, chilled from the evening air sifting through the vents. He reached, careful to not wake her, and wrapped her in his sheets, feeling his eyes becoming heavy, tired, at last, as he pulled her tighter to his body. There was nothing in his mind. Every ounce of pain and suffering, let out on her body; forceful, roughly, but never to hurt, never to truly cause pain; though he knew how much she craved it when he saw the way her eyes lit as he pushed into her, just a hair too hard. He loved the way she sighed when he grazed his teeth across her skin, her cries of lust when he swept his claws down the milky lane of her spine, welting her without drawing blood. He could still hear her breathing his name, begging, praying to him as he penetrated her, the vibration of her voice like a stringed instrument he had heard once, playing for him like music.

He leaned down, counting the eyelashes black with tear stained cosmetic. Softly, he wiped the still warm tears from her eyes along with the shadows that had gathered there, and closing his, he nestled his head into her hair, breathing, thanking everything there ever was, for the past day of his life.

Holding her close, protecting her from their demons and the monsters in the night, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Because for once, he didn't need to dream.

He had lived it.

At last.


	29. The Eye and the Storm

Chapter 29: The Eye and The Storm

_Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt._

Shepard's eyes, cemented shut with dried tears, slowly opened in the middle of the night. Feeling the rise and fall of the hard chest beneath her cheek, she nestled closer to her lover, refusing to get up. Her mind - calmed for the first moments in nearly a decade, rejected a reality that did not involve the hot sear of the skin just beneath her lips, or the ache still ringing between her thighs, too sore to be ignored. Yet the sound persisted over and over, until at last the barely conscious woman breathed an impatient exhale and swung her bare arm out to hit the alarm, only in her delirium to find there was none, as her fist collided with Garrus Vakarian's glowing blue visor.

Crunch.

She nearly had a heart attack.

She snapped up, her eyes widening in terror. She tore them over to the the sleeping alien – thankfully, he continued to lay in halcyon peace. Seized by the sight of him, she watched him for a moment. The blades of his fringe glistened on the pillow as he lay in the dreamless sleep of the exhausted. She paused as her mind fell upon a familiar and yet still moving realization. He was beautiful. The lines of him; the way the edges that armored him as he lay naked beneath the night's silver light gleamed, spread out before her. His every forbidden angle, his every plate was a taboo of the very fabric of the society in which she had been raised only to escape. If those nuns could only see her now; draped in languor besides a six foot Turian with nothing between them but starlight, his scent in her every pore.

She remembered the days she thought she was doomed to live forever in the world in which she was born. But now, amidst sliver of metal effulgent beside her, with his searing skin and hard plates, lay the affirmation to her wanderlust. She was finally free through him, her savior - she had given in to the desire she had been skirting since her first and miserable brushes with sex many years ago, at an age far younger than she should have been. No, she didn't want something closer to home. And yes, it was as she had always suspected, and never told a soul. Her own kind did nothing for her. She simply had seen too much ugliness to find any beauty in the touch of her own kin. And further, as her eyes traveled once again over his long talons on his strange fingers laying so still, up to the bladed crest that crowned his head, the natural cut of the muscles that swam just beneath the steel of skin - it was hard for her not to feel jealous of the gifts of his body; designed so perfectly to kill.

To touch him was the embodiement of her desire, but in practice, to lay with him was a careful play of pleasure and pain. There were parts of him that were smooth, like a river's stone, but if the hand strayed too far there were ridges like glass. Even his face, dark with the scar that drew her obsessed fingers and her eager lips, drew her in curiosity ever nearer. Her eyes closed as her lips touched the ceramic slip of his brow to kiss him while he slept. She gazed at him as she lay over his relaxed body, mesmerized by the scent of of her most trusted confidant, the fiercest warrior she had ever known, and now her lover. The gauche of starlight lit the long blades of his frill, spilled over the curve of his pillow, his face affectionately turned to her in sleep. She had never seen his eyes closed.

The buzzing came again, interrupting her private moment as she softly watched him, and she started; reaching for the cherished thing he had worn since before the day she had first met him and checked it again to ensure it was unharmed. She was sure she had seen it deform beneath her fist, but unbeknownst to her it was made of flexible metallic-plastic polymers that made the tool virtually unbreakable to even the most intense of forces. She poked the cryptic device for a moment, trying to shut it up, before she did something that made it flicker as a holo projection came up, flashing painfully bright in the darkened room.

Tired, his eyes forced open. The Turian, more than willing to remain asleep, blinked slowly at her with a confused and still sleepy expression as he peered blinded through the light.

_"…What are you doing…?"_

Her eyes narrowed, her fingers working without an answer to their movements. The artificial blue of the plastic refracted in the mirrors of her eyes.

"There's something up with your visor."

_"…What?..." _He asked, sitting up.

"Here."

She placed it in his hands, his fingers still sore from his use of them. He sat up in the flashing blue glow, expertly flicking through menus and dials at first just to humor her until without warning his face completely changed, as text flashed before their eyes, in Galactic Standard English.

And the Human and Turian, still entwined, stared as something strange woke them from the first peace they had found, wrapped within each other's arms.

_Wake up, Archangel._

_If you want to find Sidonis, you might want to get out of bed. Find the man named Fade, and cut through his lies to pluck out the eye that's owed to you. Go to the shipping warehouse on the 26__th__ level of Zakera ward. You will find a Volus running a shipping business. It's not legit, and he's not Fade. Keep him alive long enough to find out who is. Your 'old friend' booked passage off the Citadel in a shipping container full of platinum bound for a Blue Suns outpost in the Skyllian Verge. Catch him now, or you may never find him once he goes underground with the mercs. Use Fade to lure him out; but you've probably already thought of that, haven't you?_

_Try not to slip on the blood on the way out._

_From, _

_An Admirer_

_P.S. Tell Shepard I said hello. _

The letters disappeared, deleted automatically, as his eyes slid into hers. They stared cold and speechless at the visor, glowing innocently in the dark.

They dared not move.

* * *

The time was before three in the morning, and they were wide awake. Too early to be late, and too late to be early, the evening sky was still black, interrupted by the soundless streaks of neon red and orange taillights as cars glided in floating grids past the windowed wall. The absence of the sun lamp let the ghost of falling starlight slip down like snow onto the lovers still entwined.

He spooned her, protecting her. He did not know if they were being watched, and he did not know what to do. So many thoughts. Fears. The faces he had lost swept by in a hurricane in his mind; before his eyes were images so clear they cut. He held her, just a touch too close, just a touch too hard. She breathed shallowly, her eyes closed as her mind raced beside his, her head tucked beneath the sharp angle of his mandible and chin, her face to the warm flesh of his neck with its tensed pulse. He held her, the thing he had lost and by some miracle found, the only thing he had left; deep in his arms, pressed hard to his heart. His arms circled her waist, his fingers tangled in the rivulets of her hair running down the bare slopes of her shoulders.

Someone knew he was Archangel.

Someone knew about Sidonis.

Someone knew he had been sleeping.

And someone knew he was with Shepard.

In the dark of the gutted apartment, he had nothing but his armor still in pieces on the floor, and his M-15 Vindicator, exactly three and a half meters away from his trigger finger.

There was next to nothing in the Universe that could scare Garrus Vakarian, but in that moment, he was terrified. For the first time in his life, he froze. He simply froze. Until at last, she couldn't take it anymore.

She slid slightly away from him; he was holding her so tight he was actually hurting her. Shepard slipped painfully from the whisper of his breath across the nape of her neck to face him, setting her eyes to his, past the broken plates which held her heart.

His eyes opened; the alien lenses so close she could see the folds within his retinas, staring with something she had never seen before, ever, within them. Her heart seared the deepest pain as the realization of what he was feeling crashed on her in a monolithic tide.

Her eyes witnessed in agony the shaking of his body. He was scared. Fixed in terror on the thought that haunted the dark corners of his mind. That he would lose her again.

She threw her hands around his neck, and kissed her lips to his. Desperately, in terror, their arms encircled as he pulled close and pressed her to this shaking chest, to the screaming of his heart. The stillness broken, the stillness destroyed; their first morning together cut down before its time like so much else between their cursed lives; a cruel price paid in cold sweat for a night stolen from time.

The lovers lay coiled to each other in the strained sheets, defenseless.

She put her lips to his plated mouth as they lay so close, their heart beats synchronized one right over the other, as she caressed her fingers around the hard edges of his plated face, pulling him to her, and kissed him until his mouth opened in surrender.

Her hips, wide and giving, were pressed firm against his pelvis. The curve of her spine nested as if tailored into the hollow of his abdomen; his arms lay warm and encircled tightly around the steep curve of her waist, his hands cupped around her breasts, his face pressed into her hair. She lay curled up against him, her fingers lain over his hands, her legs entwined in his, enveloped in the alien warmth of his body shielding hers as he lay pressed against her, so much larger in comparison.

Their eyes met, hands searching, feeling; gripping for the last moment of love in the shadows as the unknown slipped swiftly over the horizon; time bleeding pitilessly on. Her arms around his neck, his forehead touched to hers with her tongue so warm within his mouth, they kissed each other goodbye to the dark sweet world where they had finally found each other, the dream of light dissolved to nothing. The feeling of safety, of peace were now but ashes from their fire, which the visor had put out.

His eyes glazed over, he whispered in the dark,

"How did they know...Who could know...they're all dead...all except for _him..._"

He removed his mouth from where it lay entangled willingly in hers, his eyes pouring into her as he nudged her again and again with his forehead, unwilling to let go as he slipped his hand down through her hair, terrified it would be the last.

"Listen to me," She whispered, her eyes closed against the shaking of him as he just kept pushing, kissing his forehead to hers, her heart breaking in his arms.

She couldn't see the nightmares just behind his eyelids. He never spoke of them, to anyone.

But he saw them just the same. And this she knew, that there the dark things he had seen lived, in secret, just behind his eyes, even if he never said a word. She spoke to him, her voice soft and calm as she found his frill and stroked it.

"…Listen to me. Listen. It's going to be ok…it's going to…"

"It's a trap. It's a trap. No one knows, no one could –"

"- It doesn't matter. Look at me. Look. Here. In my eyes. Garrus. _Garrus_."

His eyes opened just millimeters from hers, her nose pushed against the small ridge of his own, her whispers kissing him as her lips moved against his mandible, her eyes like fire in his own.

"I can't tell you no to this. This is your battle. Your fight. You have to make this choice."

He looked at her, dazed; hearing her as if down a long tunnel into which he couldn't see.

Sidonis. Alive. And right within arm's reach. Even if it was a lie, it was a risk worth taking.

"I know...I...I know...But…Shepard…I can't take you ... I have to go alone."

His eyes met hers. He wouldn't lose her again.

"... I have to."

Her fingers set around the small of his neck, slipped beneath his crest, as she looked at him, knowing she couldn't stop him, and not even for a moment having the desire to. She didn't trust it, but there was not a drop of doubt in her soul that was going to come between the only thing she loved and the justice he deserved.

The revenge.

Thane may have shed tears for the sinners, and prayers for the damned, but Jane Shepard never did.

She burned them. Until there was nothing left to pray for, and even less to bury. In that moment that was exactly what he needed, and at precisely the right time.

"Yes I am."

"…What?"

"Yes, I am coming with you."

His eyes flashed against the stone wall of hers, impenetrable. He saw the flames behind them, and he pushed her to the pillow, his face right over hers, pinning her back with his weight.

"No. I have to go alone."

The grey slits narrowed, the eyelashes gleamed; the full lips spoke. Crimson burning on his arm in a bolt of déjà vu.

Chills on his flesh with the sound of her voice.

"Then you will have to kill me. And I would like to see you try."

The bones of his jutting hips burned against her own.

"No. You don't even have armor."

"I don't need it."

His eyes narrowed, his head tilting to the side as they burned into each other, staring each other down. The Turian ran a finger through her hair as he hissed an honest threat.

"No. I will tie you to this bed."

He could almost see her smile. He never knew human nails could be so sharp, as she viced her fist around the tip of his penis with the full force of her strength, piercing through five daggers without mercy.

The pain was blinding, and her voice was ice.

"As I recall, _Officer, _you never _asked_ to board _my ship. _You demanded. And let you not forget, I am still your CO and while your protective nature is quite touching, I don't take orders from anyone anymore, _including you._"

The Vangaurd's strength was impossible to judge from her body alone; a twisted irony of appearance versus truth – she clamped her other fist around his jugular and ripped him down besides her on the bed, where he slammed, eyes bitter against the sudden surge of his arousal as she climbed on top of him, spreading her legs over his lap as she never once removed her fingers from his throat.

She put her lips to the hard plates of his, strangling him enough to pin him to the bed, just barely enough to let him breath.

She kissed him, with a whisper.

"…You said you would never leave me. Well, Garrus…that road runs both ways…"

The startled, furious, undeniably incited turian watched with smoldering lenses as his mate slipped his visor on his eye, putting her low, velvet whisper to his ear.

"So there isn't a chance in hell I'm letting you do this on your own. You and I are together. Sorry, but we are. You can make your own choices; you can pick your own battles. But this bastard didn't just slaughter your team. He took Mierin. He took your dream. And he almost took you as well...from me. So, as far as I'm concerned, your unfinished business is my unfinished business. Nothing is going to stop me from trailing you, including, most of all, you. You want to follow the advice of your secret admirer - fine. But I'm not letting you walk into an obvious trap. We do this together, and we do it now. No other alternatives. And I'm not asking for your permission."

Her grip released from the pulsing knot upon his throat, as he looked up to her.

She was the only person he had ever met who hated being told what to do as much as him, but when she got that tone with him, her voice in all its inky timbre injected like an opiate to the eager bloodstream of his veins.

He lusted for the fight in her - the fact that she was still his superior, and knew it, and owned it - even with her legs spread open on his abdomen as she threatened him with orders. He had taken her, he had had her; made love to her and fucked her within a breath's width of the other – the difference like night and day and spoken in the way he touched her, of which she let him - asked him, to take her any way he wanted. The look in her eyes only a few hours before saying, that while they lay together, there were no rules between them. He had kissed her navel and pulled her hair until she screamed, he had set her free and forced her face into his pillow; made her moan with desire as she softly glided his talons through the folds of her clitoris or made tears fall from her eyes as he sank them into her hips as he pulled her onto him when he decided he wanted her on her knees. She gave herself to him, to anything he wanted, whatever whim he had.

In his bed, she made him her lord and master, but the moment they were over, he knew she owned him, for he gave himself to her long ago, and he never wanted to leave. Their power play, her command of him, the soft smile that spread across her lips divulged that she knew this and threw it in his face in knowing disregard. This seduced a nerve buried deep inside that made him want nothing but to push those teasing thighs back until her knees touched against her breasts, and to fuck her until she screamed 'Archangel' long after her voice ran ragged with tears.

He looked at her, breathing, as she watched him from above, softly stroking the scar upon his face. He watched her face, her human features so fluid, so expressive, change before his eyes in a way his could never. Her eyes grew deep, as she looked at him lying beneath her. His hands, addicted, magnetized, falling to their place around her waist, nested into her hips which he caressed, enamored. Calmed.

"Where are your guns?" She asked evenly, stroking the long blades of his frill as he ran his thumb down the bone of her hip.

"Omega. Gone."

"All of them?"

"All my rifles are on the ship, and there's an M-15 V indicator here on the floor."

She nodded, her fingers still making love to the steely flays soaring from his skull.

"I've got an M-5 Phalanx clipped to the inside of my jacket."

A brow plate lifted.

"I didn't realize."

"You were too busy staring at my waist."

The smallest smile flashed across his lenses, and she shook her head in sarcasm as she laid down again against his chest, wanting to rest against him for just a moment longer. His voice vibrated through his sternum as she felt his fingers once again playing through her hair.

"So, just to get this straight, we've got two pistols and my broken armor between us, and no idea of whether or not this is going to lead to us getting ambushed by a bunch of pissed off mercs."

Shepard's brow raised as she nodded her head against the Turian's chest, her head resting on his cowl.

"Yes. That sounds about accurate."

Garrus exhaled and shook his head slightly, staring up at his ceiling with his blue eyes glazed over in the dark, feeling her hair slip like cold silk between his fingers. But her voice came to him, in strangely calm tones.

"But I won't need it."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"No. I won't need it. I've been busy. Training. I've got a gun and an omnitool. They'll never see me coming."

She turned to look at him, her eyes burning into his.

"I won't need my armor if we play our cards right."

He stared her down, incredulous.

"Then you propose that we simply walk in the front door, guns blazing, and start asking questions."

"No. I propose, we slip through the warehouses, as quiet as lambs, and break into the main office. Either the Volus is there, or he isn't. In the first case, we kill anyone else in the room and interrogate. If he's not in yet, we wait in ambush."

"Too exposed. That place will be loaded with mercs."

"I am assuming not - you are still thinking along Omega's lines. This is the Citadel; this Fade has to at least keep up the appearance of a legitimate business. Even if he has an in with C-Sec, as I would imagine he would have to in order to move bodies in shipments past customs, there can't be too many of them, at least out in the open. If we move fast and quiet, and use the early morning hours to our advantage, we may be able to take them by stealth."

"I don't know, Shepard. I would prefer to gather information; to watch them for weaknesses. There's too much we don't know."

"As would I, but we don't have the time. But it can work if we move together, swiftly. They shouldn't even know we're there. We kill close. Quiet. Save the guns for once we're inside."

He stared at her, and at the smile on her lips as she looked back at him. Stealth and Shepard, those words for him never quite meshed. But in the weeks he had been quiet, for the few missions he had called in for, he had seen the definite and noticeable change in her tactical maneuvers. She still loved to fight up close, to melee right against her enemies, he knew this - but there was something more refined now. Less anger and more confidence; less brawling, more fluidity. It had become almost artful, the way she cut down her enemies. Garrus had deduced by the reflection of her movements against the grace of the Assassin that she had been learning from him, and in a sense, this incited him. His tank-like Vanguard had been sharpening her skills; pushing herself, getting tempered to pain, becoming elegant in her maneuvers and lethal in her strike - more direct and precise than he had ever seen her - while he had been wasting away getting soft besides his canons. He had witnessed the full front of her elegant cover-based maneuvers in their frantic rush to acquire the Justicar, as she stalked so efficiently besides Thane. He had been forced back by the distance required by his rifle to watch them though his scope, seamlessly bleeding through the rushing waves together, side by side, slicing through the bodies down the long lens of his scope as he watched from a distance, the odd man out. He shook his head. He had suspected it, and now it was confirmed. She had been spending far too much time with the Drell.

And it was every bit his fault.

The prickle of challenge heated his core. He looked to her, steely.

"...Why is everything a suicide mission with you?"

Shepard only smiled.

"And why do you still complain, even though we both know you're addicted to the danger?"

Garrus watched as she looked up into his eyes. His arm circled warmly around her shoulders.

"You know me so well."

"I know what you like…"

Her eyes danced seductively in the dark with the soft smile of her lips.

"...Archangel."

His glance sweltered into her, as the name on her lips lit his blood on fire.

"You call me that just to play with me...You love to stroke my ego." He said, with desire once again burning through his eyes as his voice phlanged deeply as he spoke to her, extremely conscious of her breast pressed against his skin.

"I do…and how could I not? You're a hero, you know. I wonder if the locals knew that name. If they hoped, perhaps, on a dark night, that you were somewhere out there."

"I…I don't know about all that…I'm...no hero...That's not the reason I did it…any of it."

"I know, and that's what fascinates me. You never did any of it for gain. Not even fame."

"…Shepard…"

"Stop. You know…"

She spread her legs once again over him, her hair and all the scent of her falling over his face as her breasts brushed against his cowl as she touched her lips across his scar, the touch of her skin igniting a wildfire across his body.

"…Archangel…"

She kissed him, his eyes fell shut as her hand slipped through his frill.

"When I was young…I used to wish that there was someone like you, watching from the rooftops."

Garrus gazed at her as she lifted away from his mouth for just a moment to look into his eyes. He ran his hand down the sharp curve of her spine, replying in low, thoughtful tones,

"Do I hear the great Commander Shepard just wants to be saved?"

Something almost sad flashed across her eyes, as she kissed him once again, and whispered against his mouth with her eyes closed as the mere touch of him.

"Don't we all?"

Her eyes opened, and fell deeply into his.

"Now. I had heard you were a tactical genius."

His stomach gave a tiny leap.

"Of sorts."

"Well, let's put those vigilante mastermind skills to the test. You have until I put my clothes back on to figure out how we're going to infiltrate this hideout to get our 'Fade', and the car ride over to explain it to me. And you'd better make it quick, I haven't had my coffee yet, and I usually don't make bloodshed a priority before I've had my coffee, but for you I can make an exception."

"Good. I don't want anybody on the Normandy to know about this. Better to leave it in the dark."

"Precisely."

Her eye met his, gleaming in the dark. Her voice was low,

"What Cerberus doesn't know won't hurt them. Things like this are better kept quiet."

A chill inched down his spine as he nodded silently in agreement. There was something cold in her eyes that he glimpsed for just a moment before she turned them away to stare out the darkened window. There, at the edge of his bed, sitting completely unclothed, he looked at her for a moment. His eyes traveled over the long curves of her silhouette seated stark against the concrete sky and he wondered how she would have turned out if she had never joined the military, and had never put her life together.

In that single moment, he had the strangest memory of Aria, sitting across the bar. Archangel had always kept an eye on her; the most dangerous game, the pirate queen. He had always planned to one day take her out as the logical next step in his long term strategy to clean Omega of its demons, but this was only ever a half-dream. He never trully anticipated surviving long enough to face her, and thus he kept his distance; saving that mission for his inevitable suicide, or so he thought. And now, as he watched Shepard's unclothed silhouette leaning towards the dark window, the red traces of cars slipping in trails quietly past the black shadow of her body, he realized with a sharp pang that she sometimes reminded him profoundly of the Asari, and this sent a trickle down his spine.

He sat up as she slipped suddenly off his bed, stretching herself briefly before picking up her thong, which she discovered to be utterly destroyed. She sighed and threw it towards the trash, before going to work putting herself back into her bra. He watched the muscles in her abdomen tensing just beneath her skin as she paced about the room, deftly hooking the latch without looking after moving her breasts into the cups.

She was completely serious. She trusted him so completely that it shook him to his core. So strong was her belief in him that she didn't even need an explanation or a breakdown.

"No shower?" He teased, watching her intently as she began to wiggle into her leggings.

"No time."

He gazed at her, watching. She blithely pulled her hair into a chignon at the nape of her head, paying him zero regard.

"Shepard. You smell like sex... And Turian."

The redhead silkily cast her eye on him.

"I like that I can smell you on me, and I don't give a damn if anyone else can as well… So what is your point?"

He could stared at her; utterly, viscerally, in love.

"Nothing. Just…nothing."

"Good," she said quietly, walking topless into the next room, her boots already on, leaving him to stare at her, still laying on the bed.

"We're going to have an early morning. That may work to our advantage. Now, I would get up if I were you. I need to return that car by 0800, and it should probably not have any blood in it by the time we do so."

He would have gotten up, stalked straight into the next room, taken her by the hip and pushed her to the floor to have his way with her again, right there; if had another hour and not a care in the world.

He didn't. And someone was going to pay for that.

* * *

Twenty minutes later the woman and the Turian slipped soundlessly out of the door to the apartment, as the strangest sense of déjà vu once again slipped across his mind. He paused. He had been there, done this before, years ago; only then he was alone. She looked back at him, and he went again into movement. He thought for a moment as he watched her already sliding the car keys in her hand as she walked in unison beside him, that perhaps his old place was blessed, or cursed, or somewhere in between. It was the second and last time Archangel would leave those empty rooms, the premonition of blood already on his tongue.

For the second time in his once orderly life, he had entered that apartment what he thought he was, and left the person he wished he was. The person he was meant to be, the bearer of his soul name. Walking there, in his long stride amidst the streaks of starlight from the windows down the hall stalked that dark figure from Omega, beside the woman made of fire.

He slipped his weapon through his fingers, barely feeling it, his eyes falling to her hands.

"And what do you think you're doing with those?" Asked the Turian, looking down his jagged shoulder at the keys within her fingers. She cocked her brow at him, daring him to speak.

She was always his key, wasn't she?

"Exactly what it looks like."

Archangel smiled darkly with his eyes, and without asking, plucked the them from her hand.

The elevator door opened.

She continued to stare at him smokily, as he stepped in the open door.

Their eyes met.

She entered, saying nothing. Staring at him, out of the corner of her eye, the entire way down.

He had found his mate, and she was standing at his side. And as the doors to the lobby opened, and they evanesced without a word or sound, he felt the greatest sense of completion. Familiar was the feeling; power and control. And somewhere in the vast arms of the city in the void, within another shaded evening in a place without a sun, was a grave that needed filling.

That night two monsters escaped into the night to find the third, hiding still in his place within the dark.


	30. The Renegades

Chapter 30: The Renegades

_Flick_ went the cigarette.

"Yeah, so then I just didn't call her back the next day."

"That…makes you kind of an asshole. Do you know how rare it is for levos to not have the allergy?"

"Whatever. The back rooms at those places are all stocked with immune suppressants; don't ever let them give you that line about 'never being with a Turian'. It's just a ploy to get you in the back room. She was a dancer. Flighty. A million more azures just like hers. A billion. She wasn't special. Not worth my time."

"Incredible. You're a merc, you know. I don't see where you have room to cast judgments on others' professions."

"Sure there's room. What I do is useful."

"So what dancers do isn't?"

The plates of the face of the taller mercenary lit briefly in an orange gleam as he lit another cigarette. He scoffed, his eyes darting a bit as he slid them into the wider lenses of the younger Turian besides him, staring with a look of cathartic wonder,

"No."

The two Blue Suns mercenaries stood sheathed in silhouette, sneaking a cigarette in their shift in a lightless alley as had been their nightly ritual for the months since their reassignment. Amidst a faint cloud of blue smoke, they leaned against a cold metal wall in one of the hundreds of alleys made between the aisles of shipping crates the size of tram cars in a cargo storage hangar tucked innocuously in the 27th level of the Zakera Ward. It was the dead center of the night cycle. The still air was cool, and all the overhead lights were reduced down to the atmospheric gloom of their energy-reduced red-shift. Their iconic blue armor roughly disguised as private security, the two smoked in the endless labyrinth, the light's ruddy halo punctuated by a long pool of shadow lined with black hardened angles.

"These long nights wear me out. It's so damn late. Or is it early?-"

"-Who knows."

"Eh, I could never tell anyway. I'm still on Omega time."

"How the hell do you manage that? Isn't it dark there all the time?"

"Sure, but at least it's regular. Gloomy and red, like this. No sun."

"True. But I mean, I've heard. I've never actually been."

"…You're not missing much."

And out went the other smoke, its amber light darkened beneath a split-toed boot. The younger Turian watched the embers die in the moments just after his partner's foot had left it broken on the ground. The snuffed out light of the cigarette put a chill across his spine. He had felt a quiet unrest the entire day since the moment he woke up; an indistinct bad feeling he couldn't quite place, despite his best efforts since his clock-in time. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"You ever feel bad about these little breaks of ours? What with us skirting the boss these extra twenty minutes out of our paychecks each night? I know the chances of anything actually happening are non-existent, but -"

"No. Not even for a second. That pissant little Volus can afford it. Idiot. I know we've got more C-Sec guys in our pocket than that bitch Aria, but how does he think he can still play this off as a legit business with guys like us standing around in full armor? In my opinion, the shoddier our work, the better. Any strays passing through this _paradise_ may actually think we're security guards. It's just dark enough."

"…I know. It's just that sometimes…I wonder."

The older merc slid his eye over slowly to stare upon the other, who kept his glance firmly on the ground.

"You look like you have something to say."

He said nothing.

"Come on, out with it."

But he kept his glance down, even as he spoke.

"…You won't like it."

"Try me."

At last, he turned, his young eyes looking slowly through the dark into the others, his nose catching the nicotine on him.

"Do you believe….what they say about…Archangel?"

The younger mercenary felt the other's eyes narrow like ice even through the shade that hid them from sight. The reply came like a dagger; cold and fast.

"Yes. End of story."

But the other couldn't help it.

"Humor me."

The one merc turned to his partner, who stared back in mutinous revile. He threw his glance away and shifted his feet, his finger twitching automatically for his gun. In the months they had gotten to know each other in small increments over the few minutes they shared together during their stolen breaks, the younger had waited for the elder to tell him about the time he had spent on Omega, to no avail. Patiently he listened to the older mercs' stories every night, wading through all of his self-important bullshit for the golden moment he may delve into his time as one of the last surviving Suns to have been active on Omega during what was referred to in private only as 'The Slaughter." But he never did. Although the other did not know it, the only reason he was alive was that he never had actually faced Archangel. He had dodged the calls to action for an entire sleepless year. And as the younger looked to him, his heart flinched. He could recall with crushing clarity the panic he felt tear through him each time his superiors would call ranks to guard shipments, arms, or gunships. Panic, because no one that was ever called to those missions came back alive.

For exactly one year he evaded the all-seeing crosshairs of the one they called Archangel, and on that night or morning, or whatever it was, the last thing he wanted to was to admit to the terror of that name again. He had been a mercenary long enough to have lived through history. The Relay 314 Incident, brushing gunfire with the feared Spectre Saren Arterius in his prime, and being present at the blood-soaked coup of Zaeed Massani. But Archangel, the Archangel, was the reason he had put in his request for reassignment. It was something he had to bribe away six months of wages for in the frenzy that marked the panicked exodus of Blue Suns infantry from the asteroid at the height of culling. He had never in his life recalled a vigilante so adamant, so unbreakable. He almost respected him. He had listened to the whispers in the ranks in his time on Omega as Archangel reached nearly mythic status; his name told among the men who would gather at the end of shift, surmounting each other with gregarious stories on how they would collect his bounty. But the merc had seen enough bloodshed to know that all the grandstanding was the earmark of transparent fear, and in private, he knew the most boastful slept the closest to their guns.

He stared at the other merc, at his naiveté, nearly pushing him back with the intensity blazing from his eyes. Over three hundred and sixty five days of guilt-fueled nightmares rang through the hollow gleam of his irises like a poison dripping from a blade.

"He's _dead._ I saw it myself."

But the other, younger and more apt to believe in the impossible, pressed on.

"I know that's what everyone says…But what about… the ship? The ship some people saw?"

"I don't give a shit what they say about the ship. Whatever the hell those assholes scraped up after we put a rocket in his face, it certainly wasn't ali-"

But he never got to finish his sentence. At that exact moment five delicate fingers slipped around the cowl of his armor from the dark, while the others pierced the unfolded edge of an omniblade soundlessly through the center of his lumbar vertebrae. It is the most exposed part of Turian spine, just below the swell of the dorsal carapace, often open for the taking in the weakest part of commercially made armor – built of softer polymer for extended range of motion. He dropped like a stone. It was the last image the other saw before his own eyes went dark as his head sheared sideways with the column of his neck. He was dead before he could see the flash of red hair move, almost beautifully, as a blood-spattered omniblade cored his partner's throat as he lay paralyzed upon the ground.

Archangel knew to catch the body as it fell, so that the clatter of three hundred pounds of merc wouldn't advertise its' owners mortality for the entire warehouse to hear. He had given him a painless death, a severed neck at the C2 disc of the cervical vertebrae. He set the dead soundlessly on the ground, just catching the look of detached concentration in Shepard's eyes as he guided the body. Knelt down, she was already picking through the corpse.

"Looking for his wallet?" he teased in a whisper, keeping a watchful eye on the darkness of the massive hangar as the dark form to his right stood, turning over his M-4 Shuriken in her hands, displeased. She whispered softly in reply,

"Not worth it, if this is the best he can afford. Archaic, obsolete piece of shit."

He pressed his back against the wall, glancing a look down the other end of the alley to clear it.

"Cerberus has spoiled you, Commander. I imagine raises don't come easy after a certain vigilante sets one's employer back thirty million credits in debt for infrastructure repair."

She shook her head with a barely perceptible smile. He only ever called her by her title anymore when he was being sarcastic. The not so subtle insubordination was just another thing about him that had changed. It didn't bother her, somehow, mostly because she knew it was always there, and that he meant no disrespect by it. It was now an affirmation of their closeness. She knew he would always take her orders, and she knew that he had a keen sense in exactly what he could get away with. They had always been slightly more familiar than just crewmen, even back to their time on the first Normandy. She recalled the certain hint of intimacy between them that had tortured her during the year they had spent together; how subtly conscious of each other they were when she went down to visit him as he sat alone with his deconstructed rifles, stopping to chat for no good reason whatsoever. She had missed lingering in his company as they boarded return, exhausted after missions, exchanging quiet musings in the elevator alone; never admitting as she watched him walk out of those doors that she wanted nothing more than to have him for just a moment longer. It was so surreal, she thought as she stood and silently traded him the SMG for the M-23 Katana she had swiped from the merc growing cold at her feet, to remember the almost naïve Turian she had met a lifetime ago. She could still see him turning to face her for the first time, the silver of his unbroken plates caught forever in her memory.

"Quit bragging."

She folded the shotgun down to its collapsed form as he turned back to slide his eyes into hers as she slipped next to him on the wall, tucking the weapon onto the empty magnetic holster concealed at the small of her back beneath her jacket.

"It was kind of these idiots to leave us a smoke signal." She whispered, looking down the opposite corner of the alley. Bathed in impenetrable shadow and well cloaked by the racket of clinking cargo crates articulating across the wide open air by the shifting arms of magnetic cranes, they were undetected and alone in the understaffed night-shift.

"That was a good call Shepard. I didn't think Human eyes worked that well in the dark."

"Cerberus added a few perks. And besides, I learned that one from Thane."

The slightest trickle of hatred inked across his gut as he knelt to boost her to the top of the crate. Catching the edge, she slid onto it in one efficient motion, as silently as a cat. The move was bitingly familiar. The grace of it. That certain practiced precision. Green scales reflected across his mind; the distinct memory of words that cut so deep because they were true. His eyes narrowed bitterly as he waited for her.

She had definitely been spending too much time with the Drell.

A moment later she slid back down, landing in a soundless crouch, again in an irritatingly fluid and familiar fashion. It was obvious she had been training, and hard. It made him sorely regretful for the lost months he had spent hidden in the battery. His Shepard, the feisty brawler – now slinking around like an assassin. Impressed as he was – rare was the Turian body that could move with the dexterity she played with like a toy – he wondered how many hours she had spent with Thane, how many exclusive hours, alone with him_,_ it had taken her to achieve such sophistication in her movements, foreign against all his memories of her. He suddenly recalled, with clarity, the way her skin gleamed when she was worked into a sweat. Anger flashed across him. She should have been training with him.

Shepard stood easily, just catching the look in his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. What did you see?"

"It's empty between us and the main compound."

"It's unguarded?"

"No. I just caught a glimpse of about five mercs walking through the front entrance."

"Any hint of an alternate?"

"Possible. There could be another door around the left side; I could see a red glow. Could be a locked door. How fast can you hack?"

His eyes almost smiled. He cocked his head incredulously to the side. He would show her. He had picked up some experience along the way; Vortash had taught him well in all their long hours, spent before the onslaught of his screens.

"Shepard. Please."

She looked at him warmly.

"Alright then. After you."

The bite of the air rushed past them. They darted in two unseen flashes, moving like serpents cutting through a lake. The rust fringed walls of the crates slid past them in a regular grid; surface, corner, surface, corner. All moved past in a blurred collage of angles. Recessed in an alcove overlooking the moving floor of the warehouse with its travelling crates, the two flanked the left side of the ramp leading to the central control room in unison, traversing a wide arc around the side to avoid being viewed from the front. Fast they travelled upwards, darting along the edge of the scoured wall, until they breached the dark-lit alcove and slipped quickly down the side. Shepard backed near Garrus as he opened his omnitool, covering him, shielding its light behind her body, as he set his hands to work. With no sound she opened her shotgun and listened intensely to the night. It was silent.

The rush of warmer oxygen met them from the door opening to his organized digital attack; they slipped inside. Lightless, dark; a hallway a corner, and a storeroom. A high voice punctuated by the labored workings of a respirator coming from an empty door frame wreathed in weak blue light. An argument. The Turian and Human slid down to the doorframe's side, crouching, listening with their weapons drawn. Garrus looked down at Shepard knelt close at his side, her eyes unflinching with concentration. She nodded to him, tilting her head towards to door.

Go on, the motion said. Let's see what you can do.

"_And if I! -chhhk- catch the short-changers here! -chhhk- they'll be hell to – WHO ARE -!?"_

The room exploded in destruction. The Volus, perched in a chair, was leaned over a low lying table, his fist frozen against it as his diatribe was cut short by the explosive penetration of the two gunmen breeching the room. Five mercenaries faced the Volus, their backs to the door. The massive sound of surgically placed gunfire filled the room three times over with deafening waves of percussive sound and heat as the Spectre and vigilante coursed through the room in a coordinated strike. The Turian infiltrated first, sizing up the largest and most well armed merc – a towering Vanguard – throwing an overload surge over him and in fraction of a second where his armor was compromised the greatest, unleashing two headshots past his helmet. His blood-steeped brain licked the inside of his visor.

The Turian slid down the right wall, switching targets and firing so fast into his second mark was only a quarter turned around before the charge detonated his throat, splashing the rear wall with the remnants of his jugular. So large and furious was the cobalt nightmare of the alien that they never even saw the smaller female rip down the adjacent back wall, destroying two more targets in blinding succession with four blasts of her Katana. They blitzed so furiously through the room that not a single merc had time to react past the initial confusion; in the last fleeting moments of the doomed Blue Suns' lives it seemed that it was not two assailants but two-hundred, hailed in a maelstrom of fire. The last mercenary fell as Garrus neared him, pistol whipping him across the temple before blasting a double-tap into his heart from point blank range. He was dead before he hit the ground.

It was a good thing the Volus hadn't eaten anything since before midnight. The only mercy shown in that entire room was that it was dry when he began to throw up in his mouth.

The room was literally doused in carnage, dripping from the sprays and smears inundating the very walls. Without saying a word Shepard crossed the room, the treads of her boots squeaking sharply against the blood on the polished floor as she knelt, her gun shouldered to the side of the front window, watching the front entrance through the blinds.

She clacked a fresh thermal clip into the shotgun, the motion second nature, keeping her eyes on the front entrance. Not a trace of a stir in the dark hangar outside. Inwardly she blessed the dampening effect of all those clicking crates, filled with vice and transients. She turned and slid her impressed glance into the Turian. They exchanged knowing looks in a language without words.

The Turian took the compliment, just as the Volus stopped heaving long enough to start begging for his life.

Garrus turned on him, his face hidden in a solid black shadow, his visor the only discernable feature, as he began to calmly step to up to him, each boot striking like a metronome.

"W-Wait!-_chhk-_I-I-paid you guys off already! Twenty-thousand-_chhk- wasn't enough!?- chhk-I-I swear!-chhk_-I'm-_chhk-_I'M NOT RUNNING HALLEX ANYMORE!"

The Turian set both clawed hands on each arm of the chair, putting his face directly in the mask of the squat, quivering Volus, so terrified he was shaking against its back.

For the first time the light shone across the featureless black silhouette of the face inches from the Volus, and his coward's heart fell as he saw the ruinous scars bleeding from the plates into sight. He stared into the viciously pointed teeth of the Turian as he spoke, tilting his head so close he could hear the alien clicking of his breath against his hardened palate. The Volus's eyes, so keen to pick up the minute details necessary to discern the expensive from the fake, travelled from the freezing blue glance of the unvisored eye down the shattered, torn plane of his half melted face to fall at last at the armor that said it all. The armor, blue – which he took at first for just another Turian C-Sec patsy, come to shake him down for a thicker bribe – was simply not so. It was denser, upgraded, thicker, heavier, and unmistakably, obtrusively and obviously scarred. Splattered in stray flecks of blood from the dead still warmly bleeding on the floor, it was singed, blackened, cut, burned, riddled with holes and gashed sharply from what looked like a direct impact. By all means it shouldn't have been holding together, but it was; like its owner, it had unfinished business, and like its owner, it had been fished from beneath the grave, and it looked precisely, chillingly, so.

The truth washed over the Volus in an heavy wave.

"You're…_chhk_…you're not C-Sec…_chhk_…are you…"

The long teeth moved. The eyes almost smiled.

Almost.

"_No."_

The Volus screamed as Archangel smashed his hand over the high back of the chair, ripped the hinge into rotation as the Volus gripped the edges for dear life, and dragged it out from behind the desk, kicking a corpse out of his way, the wheels squeaking on the blood, to place it directly beneath the light in the center of the room.

"WHAT DO Y-_chhk_-WA-NT!?"

"Be quiet," The Turian said silkily, quietly, calmly pacing to the front of him,

"I ask a question, and you answer. _Nod._"

The Volus stared up at him, visibly shaking from the shock of being surrounded by a half dozen corpses of his own men, streaming blood out of various orifices after detonating into pieces before his very eyes just moments before. It seized all semblance of order or rationality from his brain, and raddled his control over his verbal functions.

"Wh-what?-_chhk_-?"

Archangel leaned down very, very slightly; his voice becoming frigid. The room seemed to drop twenty degrees in temperature as he took the quietest step nearer to the Volus, bathing him in his long shadow, which stretched like needle over the floor, drowning the smaller being in its jagged pool. The Volus was unable to tear his shaking glance from the single eye that glowed apart the visor.

"_I said nod."_

The Turian calmly drew his gun, and took pleasure in slowly loading it, staring at the Volus the entire time. He heard the little thing swallow, his breath in shallow, uneven shifts. He twitched his head into a bow, his masked eyes fixed upon the gun.

Shepard broke her concentration. Her eyes fell magnetized to Garrus as he stood high over the shivering Volus, towering at over twice his height. Déjà vu slithered across her mind, the moment transmuting into sharply uncanny territory as an almost forgotten dream flooded before her in very specific flashes. She wiped her sweated palm quickly against her knee.

The Turian turned the gun over in his fingers, savoring the silence.

"Where's Fade?" He asked softly, not looking up as he swiped a fingertip down the trigger.

The Volus stared, shaking so hard his tongue wouldn't move.

The Turian flicked his eye to him. It was not a question.

The Volus swallowed.

"I'm…Fade."

Garrus smiled inwardly.

"No,"

The Volus swallowed again, feeling his heart stitch itself into a traumatized glacier.

"…You're not."

"…_Yes_-_chhk_-I-"

Shepard watched intensely, staring at the Turian. Archangel asked in barely a whisper, his head bent low, his dead stare fixed, the gun glinting at his side.

"Do I look like I play games?"

"Ex-_chhk_-ex-scuse m-me?"

"I asked you…"

He set the still warm barrel to the Volus's knee, and he screamed in terror, literally flinging up his hands in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from the figure staring from above.

There was no mercy on his face.

"… If I look like I play games."

"N-No-I-!"

He slid his finger onto the trigger.

"Then answer my question, or we find out how many ligaments hold your kneecap into place."

He never raised his voice.

"PLEASE!-_chhk_-WOMAN!"

Shepard stared emotionlessly at the Volus pleading for his life, literally extending his hands to reach for her as she watched in cold blood from the window.

"PLEASE HELP ME!"

Her eyes narrowed; illuminated by a bar of crimson striped across her face, filtering in from the weak light just beginning to sift through the blinds. The slates of her eyes observed as the Volus screamed in terror at the black scythe of a Turian claw unsheathing to pierce his oxygen tube.

"For what reason should I spare you?" She spoke neutrally, staring without remorse.

"I-HAVE-_CHHK_-A F-FAMILY!"

After a long, quiet moment, she nodded her head sharply to Archangel, whose eyes were fixed on him like a laser.

"So did he."

"NO!-CHHHK!-_NO! NO!_ PLEASE! YOU CAN'T! _YOU-CHHK-YOU CAN'T!"_

"You made your choice." She whispered coldly, staring her grey gaze straight into him, tilting her gun in gesture at his envirosuit as she addressed the Turian, emotionless and clinical.

"Put your claw around the other tube, the one around his back. That's the intake for his atmospheric pressure compressor."

Their eyes met, as he stared at her. He had seen her kill before. Dozens, if not hundreds of times. But never in all the time that he had known her had he seen her so removed. In his mind he saw her sitting on the edge of his bed again, the car lights whispering past, reminding him, somehow, of Aria.

"Sever it, and he'll implode."

The cries of the Volus never even touched her as she observed him, bankrupt of empathy. Garrus could not tell if she was bluffing, but in that moment, he truly didn't care. The Volus's eyes widened in the apex of his terror as Archangel, considering, moved his free hand around the back of him, and gripped him by the intake.

The Turian said nothing as he just began to pull it from its valve.

The Volus squealed exactly like a pig as the truth came flying from his mouth.

"HAAARKIN!"

Shepard's eyes darted over, alive. Garrus stared, unflinching.

"Harkin, _who._"

But he already knew the answer.

_Harkin. _

Six years of bad memories flashed across his mind. If he had a lip, it would have curled at the name.

"I-chhk-I don't know his first name! He's-_chhk_-C-Sec! Ex-_chhk_-C-Sec!"

"Go on."

"I'm just a front! He-_chhk_-he's the real Fade! This business-_chhk_-it was mine! It was legit! But he came with Blue Suns-_chhk_-mercs and bribes already-_chhk_-in C-Sec!"

The Volus wept in vanity inside his envirosuit. He didn't see when Garrus turned his head to meet Shepard's eyes, above her lips parted with the onset of the new knowledge settling in her pores.

The Volus didn't stop there.

"N-No k-kids! NO KIDS, NO SLAVES!-_CHHK_-I SWEAR! Those were my only-_chhk_-rules!-_chhk_-All we do, is get people, sometimes dangerous people yes-_chhk_-through immigration-_chhk_-to where they need to go! We used to run a little-_chhk_-sand and Hallex but-"

"_I don't give a damn!_ Where is Harkin now!?"

"PLEASE-PLEASE!"

"_WHERE!?"_

"HERE! HE'S-_CHHK_-_HERE! THE D-24 block – there's three-chhk- crates grouped all in a line! The blue,-chhk- a storeroom! The orange,-chhk- his office! The red one is his quarters! He's inside that one now!"_

Garrus released his grip upon the Volus, letting words sink into his mind. He stood up straight, focusing on his breathing, and turned to face Shepard. She looked back at him, wordless and intense through her colorless eyes.

She checked her omni-tool. It was almost five. Her heart sank. They had precious few hours left of dark to spare.

"What do we do with him?" She asked, meeting the Turian's eye. He almost gave a start. He had forgotten he was in charge; something that only came too easy around her.

"_Let me go! Let me-chhk-go! I told you wh-!"_

"Quiet." Snarled the Turian, throwing his glance in a serpentine strike over his shoulder. The Volus fell silent immediately. Garrus turned his eyes away, considering hard. He was torn.

"He's unarmed." He said flatly after a long while, looking at his pistol almost uselessly. Shepard's slitted eyes flicked from the Turian caught in inner conflict to the Volus shaking in the chair. She watched him like a snake watches a mouse; unmoving, seeing everything. She caught his eyes jittering in addiction toward the sight of the door.

"You." She whispered, nodding to the Volus, who clutched his heart beating itself to death within his chest. He turned to look at her, horrified, remembering tales of basilisks from his youth.

He stared into her eyes.

"What are you going to do when we leave?"

The Volus heard the words as if from very far away. The truth sang its siren's song in his mind, as did the exact sum of credits for a full set of organs from an adult Turian, and the slaver's commission for a Human female with the rarest color hair.

"Wh-what?" He stuttered, so weak from shaking that he fell back in his chair as she began to cross the room, pacing, her eyes fixed upon his face. Garrus, his head bent down, turned his eye to watch her as she moved, her shotgun glinting at her side.

"I need you to tell me, right now, your intentions, if I am to let you walk outside that door."

She stopped, right before him, standing still and calm. Exactly one minute passed as the Volus stared at her in a speechlessness that was so heavy it cut the air itself, until at last, he opened his mouth, and stuttered in a high falsetto,

"I-I-_chhk_-I don't-I don't know..."

Her eyebrow slowly raised. Garrus watched her eyes, unable to turn away.

"You don't know?" She asked quietly, staring past his mask.

The Volus knew that he was doomed. He bowed his head, slowly, the weight of her eye too heavy to bear. Her words punctured him, and in that moment, he had clarity. He stopped shaking.

"The correct answer was to go home to your family. I hope they miss you."

The Volus looked up at her, as she said,

"Goodbye."

Garrus turned his eyes away as Shepard pulled the atmosphere compressor from its release, hailed by the sound of rushing oxygen. The Turian dutifully watched the opposite wall, letting the painful cries of the dying creature pass him like a storm. The ammonia breathing alien died from cardiac rupture long before the oxygen had time to filter through is lungs to poison his blood. Shepard watched the tight surface of the envirosuit buckle and deform as the flesh split open just beneath it, muscle and organs prolapsing through the tears in the dermis, pouring against the synthetic gleam of where the suit once so precisely fit. After a long moment, she turned away. He heard her walk with heavy steps as she came to stand beside him, their boots in a pool of several species' blood, Turian blue swirling into Human red.

She didn't look him in the eye.

Very slowly he looked back, and watched her darkened eyes in his. The right answer would have been anything but silence, anything but shuddering tones and the inability to explain how on one hand the Volus could plead for the sake of his role as the caregiver of his family, but not think of them first when he was given a chance to simply walk away. All he had to do was say he would have left and gone home to his wife and children. There should have been no other thought in his head; nothing but the image of spending his second chance at life in the arms of his loved ones, to have simply walked away from the nightmare he had started. That would have been the answer of an honest man.

But it was not the answer he gave.

Shepard only stared, her face as blank as snow. Her eyes swam in the blood upon the ground. Garrus directed his voice to her, who didn't return it back.

"Shepard. Was that really necessary?"

She said nothing. Her face was an ivory mask. Memories took her somewhere else.

She didn't want to tell him that it was better to leave no witnesses. She didn't want to tell him that she had read in a history of his own species the best piece of tactical advice she had ever heard. That to win, and win entirely, was only possible through the complete eradication of the enemy, and any roots connected. And so she walked through her whole life, cutting down whatever lay before her in its entirety, scorching whatever earth remained. She didn't want to remind him that C-Sec, already in the Volus's pocket, would not be likely to launch an investigation, that he was only in shock; and that when he thought about it, even C-Sec knew that those who lived by the sword died by the sword, that the only inconvenience to them would be a stopper in their flow of illicit credits as another figure of the underworld became just a featureless name in a cabinet of unsolved cases.

And so, she only said, "We have to go."

The Turian nodded gravely, keeping his thoughts to himself. He said nothing as she walked away from him, as he folded his weapon back closed.

Dutifully, working more on instinct than thought, they were sure to empty the security logs and destroy their telling footprints before retracing their steps back through the side door. They left the blood of six to darken on the floor.

* * *

James Fulbright Harkin was having the strangest dream.

He had been walking on a stone bridge hovering above an endless sea, quietly remarking at how the double crest of moons lit the glassy waves like silver on fine china. It was like something he had seen as a child once, when his father had once abandoned him in a fine art museum on Earth to get a drink off on his own. The painter was Salvador Dali, the painting itself, lost to memory. The ledge was only six inches across; floating unsupported in the ominously starless sky beneath the uncannily large stars, just wide enough for him to place one foot before the other. He had no fear; he had never been wary of heights. But deep in the back of his mind he knew that as he walked over that endless precipice that he had every single reason to. That there something very wrong.

The roar of the rushing waves howled greater and greater in crescendo, the sound becoming deafening to the point of pain. He wavered; his feet stuttering. He felt himself losing his footing; he could hear the beam breaking beneath his feet – splintering – creaking –

Clicking.

Clicking.

Breathing.

He opened his eyes.

A single glowing lens, like that eerie moon against the starless sky.

A millimeter from his face.

Alien clicking, right against his face, as breath passed through a mandible, so close it brushed against his untrimmed beard.

"Wake up, Harkin."

The floor rushed to his skull as he was picked up by his throat by three scythed fingers and slammed into to the floor. Stars of not of light but pain exploded across his eyes as agony ripped through him in a percussive wave, before crushing his lungs into a vice. His nose was deeply broken, he was blinded by agony – he called out, choking on the blood that poured down his nasal passages from the red fountain of his face, spilling the foul taste of copper deep into his stomach.

Harkin forced his eyes open as a boot smashed directly into his solar plexus, sending him reeling on his side. Forcefully, freezing sweat and mucous tearing into his eyes in a caustic burn, he looked, straining his sight through the blackness of his room to lay his furious gaze upon two silhouettes observing from the dark above.

All he could make out was the sharp outline of a Turian frill, and besides it a gleaming sweep of hair.

Hair the color of blood. A color impossible to forget.

His eyes widened into terror, his veins freezing the moment he saw her tilt her head slowly down to look at him, the faintest light just beginning to filter through the skylight on the ceiling. The light gleamed in her eyes that never faltered.

His mouth opened to speak, but as in a bad nightmare, no words came out as he looked squarely in the face of a living ghost.

"_Im…possible…"_

She only smiled softly as the shadow beside her began to move.

In a single movement, the Turian swept up the convulsing man and held him by his throat high above his head, bringing him close to look him in his watery face. In the impenetrable black, Harkin's eyes – rolling, his vision destroyed from lack of oxygen, could only see an anonymous outline as the ruinous hand around his jugular drew him nearer, the rage palpable on inhuman breath. Harkin began to protest the only thought discernible in his suffocating brain.

"Lant…ar…you…_fuck.._."

Garrus's eyes narrowed in hatred indefinable by words. Months of unadulterated guilt and regret poured in a torrent from his pieced together insides out through his hands, powered by adrenaline and vengeance. He tightened his vice around the traitor's throat – a snake that had once worked for the cause of justice only to profit in its corruption – and put his face directly in his. In a moment of overwhelming clarity, as the blue light from visor lit the scars upon his face, the dying cells of Harkin's suffocating brain fell to the conclusion that something very dire must have happened to turn the Turian he once knew as Garrus Vakarian into a nightmare he didn't recognize at all. And that nightmare said to him in a deep voice that _did not _belong to Lantar Sidonis,

"_Wrong Turian."_

Before sending him through the aluminum framework of his desk. He hit it with a blast that would have alerted all his men, if they weren't laying facedown in their own blood in rings around the building. Shepard watched calmly as James Harkin began to spit out several of his teeth. Garrus swept across the room, moving faster than the eye would guess by the size of him. He ripped Harkin from the wreckage of his desk to the floor and pinned him like an insect beneath his boot. The Turian's sole clamped hard over the traitor's throat, as he leaned his head down in subtly vicious slowness to absorb the sight of him, suffering in agony on the floor.

Harkin mouthed swears like a fish gaping out of water. Garrus stood over him, watching, disgusted by the sight.

"So _Fade, _just couldn't make yourself disappear, could you?"

"G-Garr-us, c-come on," he plead desperately, though his small, calculating eyes shifted from the visor to the scar, "We can – we can…we can work this out. What do you…what do you _need?_"

"I'm looking for someone."

"_I could help, you know…if you – if you get your foot off my fucking throat!"_

He pressed it harder; ignoring the gurgling of blood stemming up from Harkin's larynx.

"No."

Shepard emerged from the dark. Slowly, deliberately, she knelt down, looking at Harkin gently as he drowned in his own blood. She caressed a tendril of gore away as it slid out from an open split traversing his bald cranium, wiping it on his shirt. He attempted with all his might to spit on her, but the phlegm caught the blood in his throat and blocked his esophagus even further. Her eyes were the coldest the Turian had ever seen them.

"Harkin. Sweetheart_._ We're not here to ask for favors. And neither are you."

His bluish face twisted into sardonic hatred. He had not forgotten the day he met her, when she had shivved him with a bottle. He had lost his insurance at the time, and had to get stitches from a Batarian that worked out of the basement of Cora's Den who only accepted cash. The five inch scar across his stomach reminded him every time he looked at it that he would strangle her if he had the chance, and the day he learned that she had suffocated in space was the sweetest moment of his year.

He hated women, and her, the champion of them, the most of all.

"I don't give out client information…_you_…_whore_…"

_Tap._

She rapped a knuckle on the uneven bridge of his shattered nose. A nova of white hot pain erupted through his face. Blood smothered his oxygen, squirting out of his nose as he coughed on it, his hands moving up to shield his broken face.

"Now," she said firmly, watching him writhe and cry, "You helped a friend of ours disappear. I think you know who I am referring to." He rolled his head back up to scorch her with his gaze, looking out in hatred over his hands. Harkin's wraithlike eyes shifted from Shepard back to Garrus. Eventually his split lips began to move as he looked the Turian up and down, the rage welling in the pit that was his dignity. He was outnumbered and barely functioning in several places, but he was not going to acquiesce to them without biting as he fell.

"Well…_well_…Just look at the two of you, _partners in crime. _Beating a man senseless… murdering in the night. I have to say_, Garrus,"_

Their eyes met coldly as he sneered, the blood flicking from his broken teeth.

"You've changed."

The Turian's eyes narrowed as he considered how little effort it would take to crush Harkin's skull beneath his foot.

"You haven't."

He picked Harkin up by his collar and slammed his spine against the wall. Garrus's voice filtered through Shepard's ear like velvet as he slid his claws in Harkin's throat,

"Shepard. His omnitool."

She obliged, swiping it nonchalantly from the mess upon the floor while Harkin bored holes into her with his eyes. His mouth curled into a smirk as he watched her take her place besides the Turian. Shepard turned the collapsed omnitool over in her fingers, looking at Harkin detachedly as he sneered at her the whole time.

"You must think you're _so stoic right now. So righteous._ Flying around the galaxy, letting everyone believe that you've got their best interests in mind when you're just morally bankrupt as fucks like me." He laughed, bleeding openly as he did, sneering past the blood running down his chin as he mocked her to her face.

No change occurred in her expression as she leaned in, eyes open, and whispered,

"And how many dignitaries will be at your funeral, after I put your pieces in a box?"

The smile faded from his face. Her lips moved,

"I didn't think so."

Garrus took the omnitool from her hand as she stared him down, and forced it into Harkin's. He looked at the Turian, who spoke without a shred of mercy.

"Call him."

Harkin's ruined lips curled as he shook his head incredulously.

"_And just what do I say?"_

"That you need to arrange a meeting. There's been a change of plans. That it's dangerous out there, and he needs an escort."

He jutted his head in Shepard's direction, not taking his eyes off of Harkin even for a moment.

"…So you're sending her."

Harkin stared at Shepard in hatred, saying nothing, as he began to dial for Sidonis.

The receiver rang.

Harkin spoke as two sets of eyes gleamed in the dark, exchanging glances, as his conversation began to slip closed. And when he heard the dial tone turn blank he never felt the blade across his throat, from fingers cold and small, or the long arms that held him as his body struggled; his mind already gone, as they snuffed the life out of him, without a trace of sound.

* * *

The morning was young, but its light was not known to him.

His foot shook. His heart was unsteady. The space swam with bodies, but he was freezing cold.

Past him, all rushing by in multicolored flashes as he leaned over on his frigid bench, the unfamiliar bodies flushing blue and pink. So close to morning, but sleep was so far away. Footsteps following footsteps; shadows within shadows. The pulse beat softly through the muffle of his ears. Sensuous music. Lights. Lilac. Orange. Blue. Women passed him, but he never looked up. He only watched the ground at his feet, beneath the clasped vice of his fingers, the few stragglers from the bar offering an anonymous companionship that was not forgiving at all. The wide echo of the space station was an assault to his senses. The brightness of the advertisements were a hollow glow, a cold light with no warmth. From somewhere up above an Asari smiled, her face looking down for just a moment where he sat. He looked up at her; watching the pixels move. Beautiful cerulean skin, pushing some product, a falsity wrapped in a pretty package.

Deception.

Lies.

Blue flesh. Violet eyes. Mierin. He loved her, until he hated her. He had been cruel to her, tortured her with his words and his underhanded theft of the company of the one she admired. Just another betrayal in his litany of sins. And now the ghost of that cruelty put its breath at his neck as he sat alone on that bench, cold in spite of the heat, like it did every night as he tried to dream, seeing only her eyes tattooed in his mind.

Like all monsters, he hated what he couldn't have. And the regret he felt was the reminder of the place he used to keep his soul, eaten by the remorse felt just a hair too late.

The clock ticked on.

His eyes closed shut. The memories swarmed.

He gripped his arms, his fingertips warming them, his foot still tapping away. Away with his mind, to a distant place. He hadn't slept in months; yet everything still felt like he was dreaming. Early came the call, but he was already awake; Harkin's voice booming through his insomnia. The urgency in a mélange with the glow from his nightstand, aside his empty bed. He had dressed in the dark, watching the night just begin to slip away outside the chill of his window. He walked the many blocks alone to the bar he had frequented in simpler days, seating himself on the bench where he used to watch the couples pass him, the scent of alcohol and perfume lingering as they drifted by. There amidst the sunless neon sat the lonely Turian, checking the time to meet his fate. Again, and again. Six-eighteen. Six-twenty. His eyes on the digits, glowing blue.

Tick.

He heard the heartbeats in the digits.

Tick.

Mierin's eyes.

Tick.

Batarian fingers.

Tick.

A cigarette, and the black glance of a Drell.

Tick.

A Turian and a gun.

Tick.

One hundred thousand credits.

Tick.

For each body in the dirt.

Tick.

And yet the money never made him happy.

Tick.

The way he thought it would. There was nothing he could buy. No destination into which he could lose himself to make their faces disappear. No. The hole he felt was meant for something else.

Tick.

And money couldn't fill it.

Tick.

He wished that he could die.

Tick.

But he knew he couldn't, because there, in his hands, was the truth.

Beep.

He was a coward.

Beep.

Because he couldn't take his own life, but he could take the lives of friends. And though he asked for an angel to guide him, he knew that he had already burned his very last one.

Six-thirty.

A pair of boot appeared below his hands. Very slowly Lantar Sidonis looked up into two almond shaped eyes the color of ash.

The aliens looked at each other, past the reflections in the gleam. A woman stood over him, like no one he had ever seen, inspecting him carefully from above. He looked up at her, breath taken, searching her strange eyes which seemed to stare right into him. There was something distinctly peculiar about her. She did not move or blink, like a figure in a dream.

"You're Lantar." She said watchfully, as she looked through the portals of his eyes. He disclosed the word with precision, watching her irises as he spoke.

"…Yes."

Lantar. No one called him that anymore.

He watched her tilt her head, her eyes still fixed. The way the hair fell over her face; the light flaring against the crimson. She was familiar, like a conversation had but not remembered. He felt that he had seen her once, but he didn't know quite why.

"Have we met before?" He couldn't help but ask, his voice forcibly level as he slid his eyes over her, observing everything, and seeing nothing. The way her eyes narrowed, the black lashes drawing into feline slits. The subtle movements of her ensnared his eye in a silken web, capturing it; a fly. For a moment his paranoia was eclipsed by something else. He had seen her before, he was sure of it, but he could not remember where.

"No."

The depth in her voice. He had heard it. He was sure. He looked in her eyes for an answer, but found in them only the invitation of the foreign, as she cast her gaze upon him carefully, when he asked,

"Where are you from?"

The smile that never reached her eyes.

"The sky. Now come on. We have to leave. My job is to escort you to your transport in the hangar. Sorry you won't have much living space in that box, but it's the best we can do. It will be about an hour's drive even by my speed. I recommend we leave now. If my information is correct, dangerous people are after you, Lantar."

Her eyes shifted away, searching the crowd; but he couldn't look away from her when she said,

"It's better to not go alone."

He stood, sliding his eyes to the environment around her in quiet nervousness. He knew Harkin had an extensive operation, and though he didn't pretend to know every Human on the Citadel, he felt distinctly lucid in her presence. There was something off about her, different, but the calm in her voice soothed him. It was deep, solacing; something in it turned off his natural desire to turn and leave. The addicting sense of serenity was all made worse by the way she moved her stare. There was something in her eyes that spoke of trust; a siren's call that clung to her, that poured from her, whispering, that if he would simply follow, nothing could ever touch him.

"You're with Harkin?" He asked at last, staring at her, the vague discomfort slipping beneath his consciousness as he looked into her eyes.

"Of course. We humans stick together, and…James and I go back."

She ran a hand through her hair. His eyes couldn't help but watch her fingers; the way the strands slipped through the many slender digits. She did it slowly, giving his eyes just enough time to follow. He saw her notice and look away. He took a step, just a trace closer.

"It's…kind of a long story," she said as he approached her, the softness in her voice fluxing to a nervous laugh as she looked up almost curiously at his height as he neared her, as though she had never seen someone so tall. She set her gaze quickly on another passing Asari,

"You could say…we have a history."

His eyes followed her nervous hands as she absently stroked the bluish bruise just the size of a human fist on her bare bicep, before covering it with her hand. He blinked, just as he caught a chill blush against her skin, just before their eyes met once again.

"You're freezing. If I had my jacket, I'd give it to you. Forgive me, I left in a rush."

She smiled again, almost sadly, still looking fixedly away.

"You're too kind." She mentioned, watching the crowd. Nervously, she folded her bruised arms crossed, turning her soft glance everywhere but him until it landed in sweetened awkwardness on the tip of her boot, "You Turians, so protective…I'm just anxious. We really need to leave. We're not safe in the open like this."

His eyes lingered on her face, and slowly she looked up with caution, before slipping her widened lenses into his.

"What do you know about Turians?" He asked, the shifting phlange of his voice pouring in her ear. She tilted her head towards him, letting her eyes slip down the turn of his wide shoulder.

"I had a Turian lover. Once."

His voice dropped lower.

"Really."

She looked into his eyes.

"Yes…"

Then away.

"It was a long time ago…years, now."

"What happened to this…lover?"

The ghost of a tear formed in her eye. She hid her face as she turned it away.

"…He's gone."

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes flashed into his and stayed, bitingly cold, for a long moment. He watched the muscles harden just beneath her face. Anger just beneath the featureless snow. He saw the clear pools harden into metal in her eyes, but she didn't say a word. In time, she only nodded, her emotions disappearing behind a shield he couldn't see.

"Is there…anything I can do?"

He came closer, so close. She could hear the rattle of his breathing. She looked up at him; he couldn't read her face.

"Come with me."

Her expression softened.

"Since we're never going to see each other again, I guess there's no harm in confessing to a stranger."

"Oh…"He remarked in quiet interest, his eyes falling into a gaze, "Now how do you know that? The Universe can be a smaller place than one would think."

He watched her lips glide into the most elusive of smiles. But he only stared, until she slipped her eyes into his, and exhaled.

"I suppose that's true…you never know who you can run into."

He watched the minutiae of her face relax; the subtle widening of her eyes. He was so exhausted, so tired from his sleepless nights. That certain soreness of the muscles that comes from carrying a daily guilt punctured his resolve, but somehow the way she looked at him filled him with a quiet strength. In that moment, he made his choice and acted, promising himself, that this was the day and that was the moment that he would start his life over. That it was finally time.

It was finally time to bury the past.

"Ok...I trust you. But…I think I'd like to know more about this old flame of yours."

Their feet began to move, as she smiled at him with mystery.

"You know…" she said, just beginning to walk with him down the long avenue of passerby to where she had the car in the garage,

"It's the strangest thing…you almost look alike."

They walked, with her just a little ahead of him, leading. He watched the way her hips moved as he heard the music fading away. The shape of them; the stark contrast of width and curve. He remembered the way Mierin used to walk; how the ground was her plaything, and how her legs became the demons of his thoughts. The metal beneath his feet pulsed, the vibrations of her step luring him further and further from the light, until they were swallowed by shadow, and the glint of luminescence filtering in from above glittered on the windshields of parked cars like the teeth of wolves circling a campfire.

"Which one is yours?"

"The red one."

He couldn't help but smile at his turn of fortune, as she set her gaze in his; leaning against a glistening vehicle with windows so black he could barely believe they were legal. His eyes traveled over the sinuous curves of the machine, the flow of his eyes seamlessly blending into the lines of her body, her form as uninterrupted and flowing as the car. She watched his eyes travel up her, and lock into a stare.

"How fitting. But you know…I'm not supposed to get in the car with strangers. I think I'd like to know your name."

He watched her move effortlessly to the driver's side of the car, where the scissor doors opened like the arms of a praying mantis for her, as she slid inside like water. She looked at him, her beautiful lips turning in pleasure, turning on the engine.

"Seraph."

"…That's elegant."

She locked her eyes into his, just as he slid into his seat, and began to lean to her.

"It means…"

The lights in her eyes died a millimeter from his face.

"Angel."

His heart stopped as in that exact moment, as his whole world began to burn. His seat suddenly fell flat, two hands with claws extended slipped around his throat and dragged him, screaming, into the back seat just as he felt the engine thunder around them, and the world outside the windows began to blur as fists collided with his face.

Blinded, overwhelmed; he saw nothing, felt nothing. Nothing, and then slowly, the searing thunder of pain as he felt the delicate bones beneath his mandible snap. His consciousness floated above his thrashing body, suffering in torture as he saw himself being thrown across the backseat, a fist hammering the plates of his face until they split and shattered, a hand tearing, crushing the blades of his frill like splinters, wrapping around their shattered shards and smashing his face against the glass. He heard a voice, a voice he could never forget; asking, through the pulsing of his dying brain, if it felt good trusting someone, just to be betrayed.

A visor, a deep running scar, teeth against his ear.

"_Looked dead, didn't I?"_

Blue light blinding his one remaining eye, the other a darkened, paralyzed orb.

"_Well…I'm not…I bet you weren't expecting that…"_

No words came out; a tongue that couldn't move over the swelling of broken teeth, over the blood pouring down his throat; down where the rest of his organs screamed, where the broken ribs pulsed.

"_So I want you to think about…"_

The memory of hands, hands that looked so similar to his, loading a thermal round into a sniper rifle. Hands now tearing loose his bones. Hands on a visor, writing eleven names. The only time he had ever seen it off.

"_In your last few moments, here with me…old friend…"_

Blue light blinding his one remaining eye, the other a darkened, paralyzed orb.

"_Is how it feels…"_

That visor, blinding his world bathed with blood.

"_Giving your trust to someone…" _

Before the other eye went dark, forever.

"_Believing they have your best interests in mind…"_

The mechanical rush of an omniblade unfolding in close quarters. The glow of heat, slipping against his freezing skin, warm and beautiful against the torment.

"_But only getting betrayal…because everything…everything was a lie…"_

The burning sear of the tip of the blade, pushing against his throat, piercing.

"_Garrus."_

Stopping. Shaking.

"…_I'm sorry."_

A hand vicing harder on his broken frill. A tear of blood from a blinded eye.

"…_I hope you…live…knowing…"_

The immersion of a heart. Breaking, for the last time.

"_That…you're…a better man than me."_

Shepard's eyes, closing with a tear. The hardening of her fingers against the steering wheel, as she heard the blade push all the way through until it hit bone. The scent of the flesh cauterizing, the harsh whispers of pained breath, and a body slumping to the side.

The glare of the sun, as the first ray blinded through her eyes, as she heard him whisper, hollow,

_"Turn."_

* * *

Besides the wires and scaffolds of an access way long forgotten by pedestrians, the red car rolled to a quiet stop.

The rear window slowly opened, besides a Keeper calmly walking. He turned his little insect head, catching a set of eyes watching from within the cold glass of a machine he recognized as a vehicle. The Keeper stopped, observing, just as he caught the rarest of all scents. The sickly sweet flavor of organic tissue just beginning to spoil.

His mouth parts twitched, his phalanges tensed.

Slowly, carefully, a body wrapped in plastic slipped out from the window, falling headfirst onto the ground with a heavy, muted thud.

The Keeper stared at the plasticized form, considering; aware the eyes behind the window had not broken from their stare of him. He knelt down, his micro tool always ready for duty in his working hand. Carefully, he cut back the plastic.

Two milked over eyes of the tallest of species of organics. His mouth parts twitched in anticipation tinged with anxiety. There was always a problem lifting that type in one piece.

The Keeper dutifully exchanged his microtool for his bone saw, and with clinical precision, signaled for assistance as he began to slice the body into exactly six pieces of a transportable size, just as the car began to filter away into the distance.

The worst part of running murder cases in C-Sec was when the Keepers would get to the bodies first.

The evidence always seemed to somehow fade away.


	31. First Contact

Chapter 31: First Contact

You could barely see her in the snow.

The great whiteness of the northern winter fell unmercifully, freezing the sweat against the ink swirl of her hair. The stringy figure moved swiftly over the ice as the sky fell fiercely around her, but it meant nothing. Fourteen years old, she was already hardened to the cold that crunched beneath the worn out treads of her boots, two sizes too large. The premature lines that cut across her face flashed briefly from the glow cast from a yellowed streetlamp; turning her cracked lips into a small, private smile. It had only taken her an hour even in the blizzard to make the drop. Ghost wouldn't be home until well past 5 am. The thought of having the mattress to herself away from his roving, tireless hands filled her with a joy that made her forget for a moment about the starvation hollowing her gut.

Seraph pushed through the wind to the ice drenched subway entrance, trying not to slip as she descended the stairs. The familiar scent of stale urine struck through the frozen, aseptic air. She didn't even look as she slid yet another stolen metrocard through the ancient ticket-reader, immediately shoving her ungloved hand back into the rich warmth of her pocket the second it was done. By habit she tossed a look quickly over her shoulder as she tread as swiftly as possible through the dim subterranean labyrinth, shaking loose snow from the grey plane of her hood.

Nothing, and no one. At that hour the rail station was as empty as it was freezing.

The pillars lining the narrow corridor of the railway passed her in vague blurs. At least below the ground it wasn't snowing, yet somehow it was just as cold. She stood for a moment, looking around the long dark waiting area, almost wishing for some stranger to pass by, for someone new to look at. But there was no one, and she ducked her head considering this, absently scraping the ice threatening to soak through her boot, wondering how isolation could be so sweet and so terrible at once.

Suddenly the rush of air from the train decelerating out of sight cut through the lonely silence like silk into her ear. Her eyes closed in pleasure as the wind carried by its great mechanical body swept over her as the train eased to a stop to exactly where she stood. It always felt like a kiss to her, the breeze from the machine that welcomed her with its promise of something new. For the girl who dreamed of flying, it was closest thing she had to wings, even if she never left the ground. She didn't care. Every day she waited restlessly for the one thing she looked forward to; the moment she set foot onto the train that her heart would call its ship, the moment in her fantasies where she ceased to be what she was, but became instead what she wanted to be. Every day she left behind the orphan drug runner watching on the platform, and ascended to her journey someone with a purpose. The feel of the frictionless mechanism gliding over the magnets deep beneath, carrying her so effortlessly and with such speed, made her feel weightless for the first time in her life. The way she could just slip into her seat and close her eyes, feeling the harmonic vibrations of each mile traveled carrying her to places that only existed behind her eyes; drifting somewhere between the dark world passing through the window and the edges of her mind. How the metal always warmed to her skin as she lay against it; the subtle chill of the glass beneath her face. She would press her cheek against it, her tired eyes closed, dreaming of the Earth growing smaller through a window; of gravity becoming just a memory. The train she waited for each day was never late, and it never judged. It was her only escape from reality. The train that carried her livelihood and dreams with its subtle promise of escape taught her by the hardest lesson that it was possible to feel love for a machine.

The doors of her old friend opened just as always, inviting her to its warm insides. But by the time they locked she saw that she was not alone, and that somehow, somewhere, she had made a mistake that would cost her dearly for her fatigue.

The three grown men that waited for her manifested from the shadow, silent at first, before the low laughter began to roll from the mere sight of her size.

The train doors closed.

* * *

The airlock opened.

Eyes stared. Coffee cups hovered.

They looked like no one had ever seen them. Disheveled. Pale. Their eyes were hollowed out and lifeless. Dirty. They ghosted aside each other with the heaviness of the unspoken. The burden in their eyes was untranslatable, the things they had done in the dark together bound them to silence, cutting them off from watching world in a space all of their own. Past illicit, beyond confidential. Side by side they walked with the stars of their eyes stolen, as all the regular sights of the ship faded to slow motion. The nameless crewmen stared in stasis; lips hovering, fingers mindlessly pretending to push buttons. The woman and the Turian glided past, their steps heavier than their weight alone. One walked on aside the other, unphased by the stares of the crew who had not seen them for days as they looked on with a loss for words.

Shepard's hair was thick with sweat, tied into a haphazard chignon that was more than clearly unbrushed and disheveled. Joker's lips parted, seeing the shadows of slept in mascara just beneath her eyes for exactly what they were. He looked from Shepard to Garrus, just catching the scratch marks trailing down the soft side of his neck. Epiphany seized the perceptive flight lieutenant in a tide as Shepard's eye caught his, and he immediately looked down.

Her clothes fit her loosely, the product of two days without washing. Her mascara ran down one side of her face, the ghost of a tear long since dried. Purposefully she strode, immune to the judgment; the narrow-eyed glances all around her at the sight of her unwashed hair. The cold stares directed at the Turian didn't touch him, as he could give a damn less, as he waited for her at the elevator with his long foot propping open the door. She took her place at the stage of the CIC where Miranda Lawson had taken it upon herself to reside in her absence. With the nonchalance of brushing aside a cobweb, Shepard elbowed Miranda gently to the side, and changed the coordinates of the Normandy to the Hourglass Nebula without ever even looking at her. Subject Zero wasn't getting pushed to sidelines anymore.

Miranda's eyes burned as the redhead turned and stared directly into the winter of her heart. The cold had never phased Shepard, not even as she lay dying in it.

Twice.

Shepard slid away, Miranda's eyes and two dozen others in a standstill on her as she stepped down the stairs, carelessly striding in almost a strange serenity. They, the quiet crew in their identical grey uniforms, said nothing as they watched the woman who was a legend to humanity slide into the elevator besides a Turian. She turned back, setting her eyes on all of them, daring them to speak as he looked on to them beside her, and together, looking at the crew still too shocked for words, they disappeared together behind the slowly closing doors.

The elevator hummed its distant song, still slow in spite of all the upgrades she had so carefully installed. Garrus watched the floors change numbers, his eyes sliding to Shepard as she stared into the nothingness of space.

Her cold hand slipped soundlessly into the leathery folds of his. Their eyes met slowly with the weight of what they'd done.

There were no words for the look he gave her as he took her in his arms.

* * *

The assault had strung together time into a collective ring of pain; hours indistinguishable from minutes. She bled from every corner of her body.

Two men held her by her arms, as the third wailed on relentlessly exhausting his fists upon her face; his knuckles tearing open from the force of his blows until her flesh was black with broken blood vessels. The final punch smashed across her nose, breaking it for the first of many times. The blood squeaked between her gritted molars as it choked out against her will past her loosened teeth. Somewhere far off was shouting, and laughter. Incredulity that the runner on their turf was just a little girl. There was a face suddenly in hers, amidst the curtain of running crimson flowing down her vision. A smirk, a smile, and a knife glinting silver through the crimson.

The face was talking through the pounding of her blood, but from the depths of the life draining from her body, the little girl gnashed her teeth, and tore the ball off from her attacker's nose. The taste of his blood mingled strangely with her own as she felt the knife cut through her eyebrow and over her eye.

The gunshot rang, but she never felt the bullet.

* * *

Emotion poured from her in a tide in the memory of the still warm bloodshed of the crimes they had left behind. Those blood splattered rooms on the Citadel were already light years away, but the knowledge of what they had done was in the dark pools of their eyes. She took his face in her hands and kissed the scar that lingered burning him far beneath his skin. The raw touch of it against her lips reminded her of everything he had lost, his grave of piled up bodies on Omega tearing in perfect memory across her mind. Long Turian fingers slipped deep within her hair, holding onto the warmth of her so close against his face; grasping to the only proof he had that she was still alive when so much else lay dead. Shepard buried herself into the only thing she had as he pulled her in against his chest. Her head tucked in the warmth beneath his mandible and chin, almost hiding, his arms encircling her so hard it hurt.

She held his frill in her hands as their foreheads found their way together. Her eyes remained open as his closed, as her heart mourned for the deathless guilt written on him in the burn marks in of his armor. He looked at her with his eyes wrought with suffering, though he tried vigilantly to conceal what they both knew to be true. There had been no victory in his vengeance; no peace. It was only another tasteless bite of a fruit long since greyed, and when he took it, he felt only the familiar hollow certainty that nothing, not even his betrayer's death, would ever undo the past.

Holding her nothing else mattered, because somehow she always lived even when everything else lay to ruin. She was only thing he ever asked for and somehow, against the train wreck of his life, received. In his arms the worlds between them disappeared. The wall between her and her own kind, between the ship with its endless thankless duties; the burdens became gone with the battlefields. In each other they had found the key to the pain of mortal life; the only release in the sea of reality that is too huge to bear alone. All lifted as touch of his skin against hers faded every moment of pain. The only thing she could see when everything seemed so bleak, was the almost unbearable vibrancy of the life looking back so close to her. There, as time stood still for the first time in two days, the unspoken rang between them. The soundless resonating of every bittersweet sear of their feelings for each other cemented, of course, in the worst possible place, at the most difficult time.

The door to her cabin opened. They left the elevator, his steps right behind hers, entering her quarters without a word. They didn't bother to take their clothes and armor off until she had him pushed against her shower wall as the water ran down onto them, his arms circling around her waist as they pressed one against the other with a desperation known only to the damned.

Two years before in a room on a ship that lay in pieces in an endless world of snow, they had almost held each other as they did then. From the suffering that weighted them came the bittersweet mercy felt as they entwined one into the other. Shepard pushed Garrus hard against the steaming surface of the wall. Her strength that was so easy for him to forget against the litheness of her form swallowed him in a haze as she slipped her fingers around the hanging spires of his mandibles, pulling his head down to taste the warmth of his tongue through her lips. There was no waiting, there were no politics. She had had enough of second chances and apologies for things that truly didn't matter. They had lived each day as two wanderers who had walked the valley of darkness only to find life once again. There was nothing more that defined the feeling of life itself than the look between their eyes when she exposed him and pulled him into her once again.

She pressed hard against him, slipping against what her hand had already teased and stroked into erection. Her arms wrapped around his neck, the ridges running down his spine cutting into her palms as she turned her back to him, pressing the flesh of her hips against his pelvis, standing on her toes to slide backwards onto him. He panted, his breath stolen. He wanted to move, to lead, but she was moving fast; no foreplay, no restraint. Her eyes closed, she cried out; she needed it; addicted to the hardness of him sliding within her, the touch of him, his scent, without care or shame. Her head fell back; wet hair streaming against his chest still half covered in armor. She pushed her hips back against him harder as she rode onto him, working him; torturing him into a dripping frenzy as she pleasured herself against his lust for her. She gripped his hands into her own, running them down the soft swells of her breasts, dragging his talons against her skin. Aroused, breathing heavy; he whispered in the resonant timbre of his voice that made her flush with streaming fluid,

"Is this..."

His fingers wrapped around her waist, sinking his claws beneath her hipbones.

"What you wanted..."

The Turian slipped his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back, touching her ear against the hard plates of his mouth.

"When you had me...in your shower..."

He gripped, forcing her between the wall and his hips.

"I couldn't go near water for two years...without imagining..."

He pushed, pinning her, arcing the sharp angle of his jaw as he nipped her down her neck, the sweltering water coursing down the arch of her writhing spine.

"Your legs open...pushed against this wall."

He drove as deep as he could into her, his ears alive with the pierce of her cries. Her muscles became as weak as gelatin. She turned, the water streaming down her, so close to him, her hands finding their way around his body. She fell fell to her knees, pushed her hands against his hips, and wrapped her lips around him.

* * *

The strange substance of time became the snow that fell impossibly slow as she found herself besides an empty train shelter, paralyzed. But in the peace that was the Earth as she looked at it through her one unblinded eye, she ceased to care, for in that moment she saw the world in all its subtle nature for the very first time. She realized in that moment, as her blood calmly warmed the snow around her, that life was beautiful. In that moment, she felt no pain, and no hunger as she felt watched the snow as it fell, each crystal like a drop of silver melting to a tear. A sound so similar to waves lapped against the inside of her mind, the sound of water from somewhere close but invisible gently, surely freed her from the pain that bound her to the ground with every moment that passed, stretching across the horizon to a sea like none she could imagine.

Her mind was already high above, floating amidst the stars of an endless sky as something much larger than herself took her in its arms, calling to her in a language like tongues.

It was odd, she thought as the long fingers wrapped around her, she had been taught the angels were too bright to see. But this one, she mused as the world fell apart beneath her as she was lifted to the air, had the strangest eyes.

* * *

The water had long dried from her, but he held her close to him to keep her warm as if she were still soaking to the bone. It was still the early in the morning, but his mind could not keep the hours. The past twelve or twenty or a thousand, as it felt, had been a seamless blur of emotion, sex, and violence. In less than a single day he felt as if he had lived an entire lifetime. His eyes slid down to her to where she lay draped across his chest, the strands of her hair still slightly damp, wearing not a shred. He had tried to give her a useless line, mumbled as she placed her face to his chest nearly an hour before, about needing to return to work, to his station – just before her eyes fell shut from the sheer force of her exhaustion.

Stroking her through the long strands of her hair, he wished for nothing else than for that moment to have been in his apartment, as they were in the hours before, before his plans fell apart like they always did. Sometimes privately he wondered what it would be like to have things just once, turn out right… before he would remember that he didn't even know what that meant. The silken, alien strands between his fingers reminded him that he had never quite been ordinary, and in that moment, he let the notion go. A quietness came over Garrus as he saw his future written in the constellations of freckles just beginning to return to Shepard's shoulders. He could no longer deny that he had shamed his family in unintentional abandonment to pursue his bloodlust on Omega. Inside, he began to wonder if the payment of his selfishness was in the deaths of all his team. Perhaps he was simply doomed to never quite have closure, and that Sidonis would take his place among the other ghosts to haunt him too. The Drell had tried to warn him, but he ignored his truthful words, as he ignored all the good advice in his old life; reality by reality, person by person, until he had nothing left but her.

The ship grew somehow very quiet the moment that Archangel died.

And in that the very next breath, came the clearest truth he could imagine.

There, entwined in her in the bluish dark of that room, he rolled an eye over to make sure she was still asleep before he slipped off his visor without a sound. He slid his finger along its inner curve, extracting the nano-omnitool he had concealed within. The eezo lined tip instantly ignited with the thermal energy harnessed and magnified from his own body as he held it, gliding it over the words he had etched there one by one. Praying the scent of melting polymer wouldn't wake her, he pressed it to the inside of the visor where he had written eleven names.

Slowly, deliberately, he burned out a single word with the precision of a sniper's hand. He looked at the scarred line on the plastic for just a moment, before he set to work to replace the name written there with the alien pen strokes of another. He wasn't very good at writing English, but he knew the spirit of her name would be more powerful in the letters of her own tongue.

* * *

She had slept the sleep of the exhausted, and she had dreamed the strangest dreams.

Before her eyes opened, she felt warmth too rich to make her ever want to wake. She rolled over, tightening whatever soft luxury lay over her to curl up beneath it, just as doubt leaked past the security enshrouding her that whatever bed she lay in was too kind to be her own. The halo of sleep upon her comforted mind wore off slowly as she opened her heavy eyes, and all around her objects faded into focus.

She sensed, somehow, that she was underground. The unmistakable rush of a train passing by somewhere close shook the small space she had found herself in. She looked up, painfully peering into the warm orange glow of fluorescent light bars striating the ceiling above; hazard lights from a bygone era. Curiously her eye followed the electrical cords connected to them (she had never seen any) down to something she didn't recognize (a generator from two centuries past). She looked around, peering through the dark. She was laying on a ragged couch of a design she had only seen in period piece vids. One look at the abandoned twentieth century percolator with the thick coat of dust around its neatly coiled power cord told her that she, like Alice, had fallen through a rabbit hole and had awoke to find herself in a place untouched by time. Although she did not know it, she was in what used to be referred to as a 'break-room'. It's use was for the workmen of the train lines when they used to have such things, before the crowning swell of science, eezo and robotics had rendered the touch of humanity on machines forgotten.

From somewhere far off another train rushed by. In the vibration left behind she could feel its path heading in the opposite direction, precisely ten minutes after the first. She breathed, not knowing what to do. Seraph laid there, quite still, listening to the sound of whispering rails. Her eye found the thing that was covering her and immediately she realized it did not belong in the dingy human room with its grey, obsolete history.

It was a silvery substance, an unknown fabric that flowed like water through her fingertips. Her eyes fell to it, unable to look away, as she teased it through her fingers. He had never seen anything like it in her life; profoundly strange, lustrous, and somehow as light as air. While it was only a few millimeters thin, where it touched her skin it nearly burned with magnified heat. Although she could not prove it, she realized that by some miraculous conduction the heat the garment seemed to emanate was somehow harnessed from her own. She suddenly sat up, her heart beating, her eyes wide, pulling the thing away from her as she held it between her hands. It slipped over her skin, rippling like waves, shining like metal; running all down it were streaks of silver and crimson lined in precise geometries of an almost mathematical nature she had never seen before. Turning the thing over and over in a mounting desperation to define it, the gnawing realization came to her that it was some type of clothing – but she could see no seams, no fastenings, and the sheer length of it was impossible.

She turned it and turned it, trying in vain to find where it ended and began, oblivious to everything around her until, like a thunderbolt, she heard something like steel set down in the next room, just out of sight, and her blood turned all to ice.

She froze; listening.

The world around her spun in dizzying speed as her eyes closed in terror as she slowly realized she may not be alone. Her hands went immediately to her pockets, but she found nothing there but searing pain as the memory of what had happened to her came crushing back. Her instinctual fear momentarily forgotten, her hands let go of the garment and slowly fell down to her body. Every muscle felt on fire, as if they had all been ripped out and haphazardly put back into her by a madman. She felt herself, her brow knitting, her teeth clenching, as she discovered the horrid bruises on her body, one by one, as the memory of each blow came back as she traveled over the roadmap of scars her attackers had left on and in her body. At last she felt just beneath her breast, where the point blank shot had just missed her heart, collapsing her lung as it exploded straight through and out her back. She felt the broken ribs still clicking as she breathed. Daring to look beneath her clothes, her eyes found a long, shining bandage running down her ribcage, concealing the mystery of how she breathed beneath it with her gunshot wound, which somehow didn't hurt at all. At last, her fingers traveled to her face as she discovered yet another bandage, blinding her left eye. Her fingers traveled to its edges, entranced, just as she began to reach under its edge to peel it, a baritone clicking sound like none she had ever heard pierced the silence and she froze as she quickly turned, seeing something she has never seen before.

Seven feet tall, it had to duck beneath the door frame just to come into the room. Her universe fell quiet as she watched, frozen as stone, as a creature so foreign to her eye it hardly seemed real stepped into the light and changed the course of her life in that single moment, forever.

Seven feet tall. Seven feet tall and bladed at the crown with a crest of silver knife-like structures that fell to a point behind his armor plated head, so high above. Impossibly wide at the shoulder, impossibly narrow at the waist – its legs turned back the wrong way, its feet cloven in two. Three uncannily long fingers were wrapped around an alien weapon that was more than clearly a massive gun. Her eyes widened as she shook, shivering uncontrollably, terrified for the first time in her life.

The creature stopped like a statue in its tracks, every bit as frozen as the tiny human shivering as she looked back.

An unknown length of time stretched on as the two beings stared each other's eyes; her own terrified grey falling against the most impossible emerald green she could imagine. She could only stare, powerless, tiny, and utterly transfixed as the thing before her tilted its heavy plated eyes, looking at her closely. As it moved the light shone across it. The plates that lined his masklike face became illuminated, the lamplight magnified in its eyes against the bone white paint. By some internal instinct, she knew that it was male.

He watched her, every bit as uncertain, every bit as nervous. He took a single step; she flinched, moving back further on the couch, her strange many fingered hands clutching irrationally around his clothes. He stopped suddenly as he realized, feeling like a fool, that he was still holding his rifle. Shaking his head at his own idiocy, he folded it (to the amazement of the little female's eyes) and set it carefully, watching her the whole time, on a table to his right, hovering his hand away slowly as he did.

She watched the thing set down its gun, folded into a perplexingly small rectangle. Deep in the back of her mind, past her fear, she saw something in the creature's strange green eyes that for a moment stopped the fear in her heart. He wasn't going to hurt her.

Seraph looked on, still shivering in violent bursts as the alien looked at her bruised face with a hollow sadness that pierced through him, stopping the cold chill in her bones. As she looked to him wordlessly, a pain filtered across her heart as she saw pity ring through the creature's eyes, unmistakable even across the universe between them.

He had never, in all his travels, seen a species so cruel to its own children.

He approached. She watched. The light glided over him as he moved carefully, watching her intensely, not making any sudden movements. He seemed to grow taller and taller every step towards her that he took, until at last she was craning up to look to him. Suddenly, without warning, tears swelled in her eyes that came from a place she didn't understand. Something turned in her heart that sent a shiver down her spine; a strange adrenaline tipped warmth rushed through her chest down through her fingertips. He stood over her, looking down with that pity that made his eyes so much more beautiful, and she watched, unable to take her glance away from his as he opened the strange fingers of his hand, and her eyes fell to his palm.

There, in the center of those long fingers with their black claws so perilously sharp, was the only true kindness her young life had ever known. Closing her eyes, she knew in that moment that her prayers had been answered. That the train had finally brought her, one day, like the magic in a fairytale, to a world not of her own. She kept her eyes closed, almost expecting to wake up. She had the strangest impression that she had dreamed something like this once, though she could not quite remember when.

She slipped her hand in his, five fingers in three, as one alien helped the other stand.

Her still broken knees buckled. She cried out, but he caught her, saying urgent sounding things that she couldn't comprehend in a complex language spoken through a harmonic voice. She spoke too, reassuring him as he supported her, lying that she was fine, although she could not know if he could understand. Against her protests he set her down easily on the couch again, like a doll, talking to himself in his calm yet slightly nervous tones. She watched transfixed as he suddenly dropped down, wrapping his fingers around her ankle, so long they stretched all the way around, and gently lifted her knee at an angle as he concentrated, putting himself to work. She gasped in involuntary pain as he moved the joint to a certain altitude. The girl watched him through gritted teeth as his eyes focused, narrowing in their black scleral rings as he placed his fingers on her knee and moved them, feeling the still broken structures unhealed just beneath the skin.

He felt around her knee with a tenderness unexpected from the shape of his deadly looking hands. She watched him carefully as he felt for her injury while delicately avoiding piercing her with his scythe-like claws. At last he turned, curving his body over her to reach out with his arms. She felt her stomach bottom out for a reason she couldn't place as he wrapped his arms around her momentarily to set her further back onto the couch. Dazed, she stared as he straightened her knee and examined it, thinking deeply.

"What are you doing?" She asked, watching him as he thought. His mandibles moved as he formed his oddly musical, chord-like words. Yet after a few came tumbling out he only shook his head, knowing she couldn't understand him. Looking strained, the being cast his eye over her, his mandible moving absently as he thought fast, before he disappeared into the next room and returned with a clear tablet made of something like glass. He slid his finger over it, and immediately it lit with a spectral glow of scrolling alien shapes that shone against the dark. He played with it for a moment, until it became blank again save for a gently glowing cursor, and he placed it in her hand.

He moved his mouth, speaking to her. To her unyielding wonder English words flared across the transparent little screen.

_Let me know if you can read that._

She looked up, her eyes instantly wide again. Seraph coughed out of nervous amazement, and shook her head in agreement. She was talking to an alien, who suddenly looked quite relieved.

_Good. _

Seraph looked at him with eyes that couldn't blink, tilting her head as she took in all the details of him that she would remember for the rest of the days of her life, as he began to speak to her.

_It's still broken, and I'm almost out of medigel. I could save your lung with what I had, but I had to ration. I'm sorry. I think you'll have some scars. _

"It's ok… Lucky for you, I…well…I like scars." She told him absently, watching the words across the screen. She merely stared at them, at the letters so familiar on the technology millenia more advanced than her own. The girl looked up and back at him, unsure of what to say as he slowly stood to his full height again, beginning to pace in what she recognized immediately as carefully hidden anxiety. For the first time in the whole peculiar ordeal, logical questions began to filter through her mind as she watched the nameless alien pace across the room, his eyes off far away to somewhere else.

"Where…are you from? I mean, I know, obviously, but…" She blurted, feeling like an idiot in her stammering, but he was unphased by it. He turned away from her as the question lingered in the air unanswered. She watched as he slowly looked over his shoulder, and his eye fell into hers.

_The sky.  
_

Her eyes narrowed in confusion at his evasive reply as she looked up from the words on her screen to the look on his face, and suddenly he realized she had no idea what he was. No idea at all, of the species that had almost wiped her own off of the map.

The Turian took a deep breath, realizing his precarious situation had somehow become a little stranger.

"I'm sorry," She said softly, still watching him closely, drinking in his details. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. But…it's just…well this is kind of unexpected."

_No kidding._

She couldn't help but laugh at that. He watched the way she smiled, remarking how she could have almost passed for an Asari. The girl moved her knee, bracing it with her hands. The way he watched her made her nervous, but not out of any danger. There was simply no guideline to how to talk to a species from another planet, and with the circumstances being what they were, she felt at a total loss for words. She played with her injury almost absently, desperate to buy herself time for what to ask him next. It still hardly felt real, and part of her was still expecting to wake up.

"May I ask you another question?"

He leaned against the wall, watching. She observed his long arms folding as he leaned, considering her carefully.

_I suppose. Not much else for us to do. That will take at least three more of your days to heal, with what I applied onto it earlier._

"Ok," She nodded, with all the overwhelming possibilities beginning to frenzy her mind into a static, "Where are we right now?"

He took a breath, exhaling slowly. She memorized the way his mandibles flared.

_We are in some sort of ancient lounge, in an abandoned access way of one of your railcar systems. I was out, looking for ice, when I found you on the pavement. You were still alive. I took you back here, where I've been…residing…and I tried to do for you what I could._

His eyes narrowed as she looked up at him, his expression changing into something quiet and complex.

_I can't believe you lived._

Seraph's eyes fell down to the word.

Lived.

"Well. I've always been sort of a survivor."

The alien cocked his head to the side.

_I noticed. _

Seraph's eyes met his as they looked at each other across the room. Her fingertips went again to the bandaged patch over her eye, and she touched it gingerly.

"Did you try to stop me from taking this off?"

_Yes. It is not ready yet. You couldn't understand me. But I have a translator, so I can understand you so we won't have to sit here writing love notes back and forth…which is fortunate, because I doubt you're fluent in Turian._

She smiled again; relieved somehow that he had a sense of humor.

"Is that what you are? '_Turian'_?"

He nodded, still suspicious she didn't recognize him for what he was. He wondered if she even knew about the war.

_Yes. I am Turian. And you're a Human. And this…is somewhat awkward. I wasn't really trained for this._

"Well, sometimes shit happens. So I'm stuck with you for three days?"

_It appears so._

"Well, no one's going to believe me when if I try to tell them this story, so if you're here hiding, you're secret is safe with me." She said, lifting herself up to sit a little straighter. She watched him immediately tighten in his stance. She had seen straight through him.

"What?" She asked, setting her eye directly in his, "I know a hideout when I see one. I'm not stupid."

_Is it that obvious?_

"Yeah, pretty much." She nodded, raising her wounded eyebrow at him, concealed beneath the bandage. "So...What generic alien-crash landing story is it? Does your species need water? Will you die if I cough on you or something? Are you going to neuralize me when this is all over and give me some bullshit line about not being able to ethically intervene in the actions of lesser civilizations?"

He did something that resembled a chuckle, but he told her nothing.

"Fine be that way."

She shook her head, becoming pubescently frustrated. She looked all around the room, seeing nothing more alien that the Turian and whatever he had wrapped her in, still warm beneath her fingers.

"But…" she trailed off, thinking as she looked around the dusty room, wondering more questions than she sensed he would give her answers for, "You do need water, don't you? That was what the ice was for, when you accidentally found me."

He nodded, still watching with his quiet eyes. She stared at him, her expression growing to concern.

"What are you eating?"

He looked away. Her stomach sank inside her gut.

"Hey. Turian, I asked you a damn question. _What are you eating?_"

His eyes darted back to her, looking almost suspicious. She watched, becoming quietly aware at how she could read him through his eyes.

_Why is that your concern?_

She rolled her eyes incredulously, replying as if it was the clearest thing in the world,

"_Because you saved my life._ And since you're obviously hiding, I'm curious to know how you are keeping yourself alive. I can't have you dying of starvation while I'm stuck here on the couch. And…"

Her eyes traveled down his body, down the impossibly long lines.

"I doubt you'd get very far in plain sight, even if you have lasers or whatever."

The Turian stared at her, keeping his sharp, dangerous looking mouth decidedly closed.

…_I am getting by. _

"You're impossible." She exhaled, running her hand through her hair in exasperation, a habit she would carry with her whole life. She shook her head and looked back to him, as suddenly moved – much quicker than she would have guessed by his size. She observed as he picked up his gun, unfolding it just a touch too fast to give the impression of being completely calm. A grave, foreboding look came over his eyes as if he had just remembered something sinister that he had momentarily forgotten, and without a word he pulled his rifle to him closely and set off into the other room.

"Hey! Wait!"

But no reply came. Furious, biting her lip she craned herself upwards over her broken bones and muscles and leaned as far as she could over to see where he had gone. Pushing herself to her limit, she leaned all the way over and finally saw him, standing strangely, facing a door she had not seen before. He stood as still as stone, staring at it with a seriousness that made her nerves tingle with anxiety. He did not turn around when after a long moment, he replied in tones that had gone cold and were unmistakably stern.

_Be quiet and rest._

"But what the hell am I supposed to do? I'm stuck here, and…you haven't told me shit!"

_Rest._

"No!"

He slowly turned around, and gave her his iciest, most intimidating glare. Under any other circumstances, it would have dried paint, but it only made the little redhead cross her arms determinedly, and give him her own death glare right back. They stared each other down, until the Turian's glance broke as he shook his head impatiently, looking decisively away.

But Seraph kept staring into him, into the lengths of his crest, the strange surface of what seemed to be some sort of armor; the gears of her mind considering and considering, until, at last, she succumbed to her exhaustion, and lay herself back down, defeated.

For a long time her eyes danced upon the ceiling, with thoughts stranger than she had ever had in her life filtering across her mind. She watched many things travel across that ceiling from the rainstorm of her mind. The orphanage with its peeling windows. The nuns in their black habits. Tea, steaming in the endless cold. The doctor with his restraints and chair. The day they shaved her head. Ghost. Fire. A filthy mattress and a life she never asked for, worse somehow, than the first.

But through the silence so profound, punctuated only by the occasional lull of a passing train, she heard the tall being breathing from his place in the next room. In, and out. A sound so soft against his hardness; a soothing clicking like a purr. Her eyes closed, listening to it, as her mind began to let go, to relax. There was so much she didn't want to think about, so much she knew she would have to explain. She knew the Reds were somewhere looking for her, and worse, Ghost. She could almost see him searching for her, the snow swirling in his long black hair. Instinctually she hid, curling up beneath the alien garment with its pacifying warmth, as dreams once washed to edges of her mind, abandoning the pressure of remaining awake. The harmonic murmur of Turian breath set in, erasing all thoughts from her mind. It was a sound so calming, like water lapping at a shore. Just as she began to drift away, a small voice that didn't sound like her own asked softly as she just began to dream,

"What's your name?"

The alien heard the question from the next room. His eyes fell upon the floor. The rifle was heavy in his hands, like a boulder after countless days spent watching the door. He was lost, starving, and completely cut off from his own kind. His ship lay in ruins, his supplies were non-existent. He stared down at the ground so terribly foreign, wondering how it had ended this way, for certainly any minute his hunter would break down through the door. And now the only thing he had was a little injured alien, found in the snow like a bird with a broken wing.

In that moment, his life passed before his eyes.

He whispered, and confessed.

But of course, she was already asleep.

* * *

Shepard's eyes opened to Garrus, sliding the sheet just a bit higher onto her. She grasped his hand, and looked into his eyes with a tenderness he didn't expect.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did. What time is it?"

"Nearly noon. We're scheduled to drop in a few hours."

Shepard exhaled, pushing back the anxiety at having slept too long down to the floor as she ran her fingers through her hair. Garrus meandered over to her door, already completely put together. She watched him, knowing that he should have left hours ago. It touched her that he didn't.

"Garrus."

He turned, his eye sliding into hers.

Shepard sat up, transfixed for a moment, in the way the light from the aquarium lit his face.

"You don't have to go on this mission. If you… still need time."

He stood still for a moment, before cocking his head back, shifting his weight assuredly and asking,

"Are you kidding? It's a Blue Suns prison ship, Shepard. _Target heaven_ if it all goes to hell."

She shook her head, smiling, but he interrupted,

"But there's just one thing."

She rolled her eye back over to him, raising a bold eyebrow, now erased of its old scar.

"And what would that be?"

Garrus looked at her carefully through his other eye, observing her through his visor. His voice dropped lower, to softer tones he only used with her.

"You never told me your 'big secret'. The thing that happened to you on the train."

Shepard stared at him, until the world melted and she saw her past hanging in the air. She became very quiet as memories swept back. In that moment she suddenly felt a pang of guilt for Thane. How terrible it must be to remember every detail of life with photographic accuracy.

She smiled again, but sadly. He watched her eyes fall away.

"I… I don't know if you'd believe me if I told you. It's…kind of a weird story."

But Garrus, always open to her, asked in his incredulous flanges,

"Shepard, tell me one thing that isn'_t_ weird about your life, and I'll give you my visor."

And of course, she smiled, because somehow he could always make her smile. She took a deep breath as she opened her hands and looked to her palms, asking finally after what seemed like an eternal moment,

"Garrus…did you ever know someone named Nihlus?"


	32. The Survivor

Chapter 32: The Survivor

Nihlus heard the door open. He knew that she would come that night. He had not even bothered to lock it.

He heard the click of the Justicar's boots as she walked into the place he had hoped she would never find, but of course, she did. She didn't even slow her pace. He heard her footsteps fall casually as she crossed the first room and rounded the corner to face him with the nonchalance of walking into her own home. After two weeks of sleepless running, it was almost a relief to see her again, standing tall beneath the long shroud of her overcoat. She turned her eye on him and pierced him with her glance. The Asari lifted her elegant neck to stare down at him through her wide, judicious eye.

"Turian." She greeted curtly.

"Justicar." He dryly replied.

He observed the ancient being from where he sat on a chair he had dragged into the center of the room, his starved eyes watching her remove the thick, alien knit scarf that concealed her almost delicate Asari crest. His rifle was in his hands and loaded, yet he set it on the floor. He said nothing to her as he folded his arms and sat back waiting for the inevitable. The Justicar's cold lenses flicked from the gleam of the gun at his feet to the hatred brimming in his eyes. She had hunted him through three mass relays, fourteen day cycles, and the primitive urban wilderness of Earth to corner him in his little grave beneath the soil, and now, her most dangerous and elusive prey, was bargaining for a plea.

The Justicar's eyes narrowed.

"You know that being unarmed now will not save you. Your crime is already committed."

Nihlus's eyes followed her as he watched the overhead light strike across her face, gleaming over the thick layer of cosmetic she had applied to pass for a weak approximation of Human. How easy it must have been for her, walking among the aliens with the advantage of being so similar in form. For a moment he wondered if she had taken her time in her hunt of him; let him scramble for a few days while she took in Earth's rare, uncharted sights. But of course she hadn't, he thought bitterly as he observed her. That would imply she had a soul.

"You mentioned. Kill me quickly and quietly. I'm done running from your code."

"Quietly?" She asked as she elegantly removed her gleaming black glove, taking her time to flex her biotics for her quarry,"Why ever for? The Humans know nothing of our presence. I rendered your ship to atoms detectable only by mineral scan…I believe you have become quite paranoid, Spectre."

But the when the Turian did not reply, the Justicar paused in articulating warmth into her long fingers from the cold, and stared at him through the slitted lids of her eyes.

"What are you concealing?" She asked in suspicion, her eyes reaching around where he sat to the oddly shaped pile of possessions and debris coating something small but definite on the collapsed sofa behind him.

"Nothing." He said in equal intensity, not moving his glance from the lightless glare of hers.

"You are lying. Move aside."

"No."

"As you wish."

With one flick of her wrist the Justicar sent the Turian hurtling across the room and smashing into the wall. She didn't bother to look at the crumpled pile of limbs and armor she had reduced him to when she strode to the little pile and began removing things one by one. His heart stopped beating. Something primeval, unknown to him - coursing like fire in his veins overpowered him the fraction of a secondas he watched the bloodless Asari lean over the bundle with a blue glow in her eyes.

"_Get away from her, you bitch!"_

Snatching his assault rifle from the floor - he stormed her, possessed by adrenaline and instinct. She raised a finger and tapped a biotic barrier into existence that he slammed into like a brick wall. With a twist of her hand she levitated him in a controlled pull off of the ground. He flailed helplessly in the air, his gun tearing away from him as he still irrationally attempted to thrash at her as he raged and screamed in hatred. The Asari pulled a garment of gleaming fabric away, revealing the small form of a fragile alien child sleeping in a chemical narcosis.

The Justicar gasped; her fingers tensing in place, the fabric dropping to the floor. Instantly she ran her hand over the broken little face, reading her injuries in silent horror, before turning on the Turian in a rage that surged with her biotics, ripping power from the lights above to set the room in a flash of blackness punctuated only by her demonic glow.

"_WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?"_

"_I DID NOTHING!" _He bellowed from the hovering ball of biotics and his fury, _"I found her dying in the snow! Raped - cut and torn apart by her own species- I couldn't just leave her there to bleed!"_

The faces of Samara's daughters stormed before her eyes. She raised her shivering fingertips to her temples and dropped him carelessly, burying her face into her hand.

Nihlus lifted himself, breathing sharply as he fought against having the wind knocked out of him, holding his hand against his searing chest which demanded more breath than he could take in. He watched helplessly as the Justicar removed her fingers from her temple as she leaned over the unconscious human, searching her with her wide, crystalline eyes. The Turian could force only a savage growl as the Asari put her face over the broken child, her intentions remaining unknown.

"What…is the extent of her injuries?" asked Samara in a detached whisper. Her cold lenses flicked with distress as they rapidly traveled over the bruises on the innocent face beneath her. The Justicar's glance fell on the blackened eye concealed behind a bandage, her nose taken with the overwhelming scent of medigel. Nihlus exhaled sharply through his gritted teeth, his eyes closed as he scraped the floor open with his fist; tearing his claws down the pavement in exhausted, hopeless despair. He had fled the Justicar for more days than he remembered. His faculties were dissolving as his mind and body ached more and more with the tremors of exhaustion and starvation. He was ashamed of his own panic; crippled by the guilt of his weakness. When he drugged and covered the girl after she had finally fallen asleep, he didn't know what he was thinking, and knew less what he was doing. He had no way to hide her, nowhere to take her, nowhere to go, and nowhere out. He knew he would die at the Justicar's hand, and he had already accepted it, but the moment he found the girl with the red hair in her pool of blood and melted snow his life became more important than his alone.

The Turian, raised into the tightly ordered world of his society of sacrifice, thought nothing of giving his life to save another. It was the very reason that he lived. And so when he watched the Justicar, the angel of death, leaning over the fragile life he had plucked from winter's teeth, his hunger – his starvation and his hopeless chance of survival in the odd turn of events that had been the past few weeks of his life, suddenly rang clear with a purpose he had never expected. No one had ever survived the onslaught of a Justicar; no one. He had no concept what her intentions were, of what her code specified for the girl caught in the crossfire. All the Turian knew in his vast powerlessness was something unnerving – creeping even, that slowly turned beneath his skin. Nihlus had felt the tinge of clairvoyance; his hidden gift which had cast him out of close relationships his whole life. But there it was again; the unmistakable feeling. An epiphany writhing in his nerves too uncanny to ignore. He sensed that the universe and the fates had conspired, and that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. The enigma of the events of his life unveiled the moment he looked into the little Human's eyes when he knew, somehow, that her life meant something far greater than his own.

Yet, in the grey of those eyes he had seen the premonition of his death, but the Turian did not fear it. He tried in desperation, through the unraveling of all his training to pathetically conceal her from the uncaring hand of the Justicar, like a child hiding from a monster beneath a blanket. But she had found them, like he knew she would, and he could do nothing now but beg.

At last he spoke quietly to the ground, through a raw, bitter voice.

"…Violated…Knees broken… Eye slashed through the brow. I don't know if they blinded her, but I poured enough medigel onto it to not find out. Gunshot wound through the left lung, exit wound directly through. It missed her heart and spine by almost nothing. I don't know how many broken ribs. I don't know….I just …I sedated her after she awoke and fell asleep…I didn't know what to do…I…"

But Samara wasn't listening anymore; she only stared down at the young life that refused to die, gently breathing in her chemical dreams. Not in a thousand years had she been caught in her own code the way she was just then.

"Justicar," Asked the Turian, straightening himself, staring like a wounded animal at the Asari whose eyes had grown dark as night,

"What is between us… is between us. Please…"

She turned slowly, her hand still hovering near her face, her eyes gleaming like flints. The Turian dragged himself to his feet, standing tall, refusing to feel pain; staring with a voice that never faltered,

"Don't bring her into this. Please… forget her. She has no part in what I've done. And when you are through…dispose of my body somewhere else…"

His eyes fell to the tiny figure laying broken beneath his clothes.

"This child has suffered enough."

A silence pierced the room as the Justicar stood like stone, her sutras running in ribbons of razorwire through her mind. She turned and stared into the Turian, who stared just as intensely back. At last, after a speechless length of time, she quietly asked him several direct and level questions, which was the last thing he expected.

"…Can she walk?"

"No."

The Asari stared hard at the girl.

"How long until her injuries will heal?"

Nihlus exhaled, his eyes falling to the girl's red hair.

"Three days more, on what medigel I have."

Three days alone and the child would die.

The meaning of that simple number echoed in her mind. A set of ancient eyes closed as lips older the steel beneath her feet began to move to the words tattooed across her soul.

"The Path of Justice is beset on all sides by the atrocities of the wicked and the temptations of liars and false prophets. Blessed be she who walks this path to shepherd the weak through the valley of darkness, for the Justicar treads the sins of this life holding nothing but the Shield of Truth and the Message of Eternal Law."

He stared at the figure of death guised in blue skin as all the warmth drained from his veins, as she continued to recite, never once turning to even look at him.

"I surrender my life to the Path of Justice. I am the Eye of Judgment, the Blood of Vengeance, and the hand of Death. Where the breath of evil whispers, I cleanse with the Fire of Retribution… flesh… bone…city or star. But I will not suffer the death of even a single innocent…Never shall I be the witness to the destruction of a child...So reads the First Immortal Sutra… May the words be carved forever on my soul."

His eyes, wide – unblinking, searched her desperately for answers – but there were none. Nothing. For all her verses and sutras, he heard nothing but the runic language of a dying order supported by a scaffold of arcane ideals but still, he searched. The Asari only looked to him with face as hard as stone as she began to speak once again.

"You are bound to this life before you, and I cannot be the undoing of it. By the order of the First Sutra, you are released."

He could only stare.

"_What?"_

"This child is an innocent. You have forced me into a choice, Turian…That does not happen often. If I take your life, this child has no one to care for her injuries, and she will surely die."

Nihlus watched in revelation, unable to tear his eyes from the Asari as she slowly walked away from the unconscious little body, and turned her back to him, and began to swiftly exit the room as fast as her legs could carry her. The Turian, blinked – too fast; it was happening too fast.

"_Wait!"_ He called, not knowing what for, as he loped after her, tearing into the next room, bracing himself on the door frame,

"JUSTICAR!"

But like a mirage in a desert, she was only barely there – and now, as he most desperately needed answers, gone. He watched, the hallway growing longer and longer with each click of her heels as she walked away - his only chance of leaving his snowy tomb on Earth. Paralyzed all except for his screaming heart, the failed Spectre watched as the angel of death slowly set two canisters of medigel on the counter besides her, and just as quickly as she came, she walked out of the door to his life into to the void from where she had come.

The Turian collapsed, his insides bursting – an inferno of confusion, terror and despair which brought him to his knees. He still stared after her for hours, asking his father as he had every night since his death what he should do. But just as with the Justicar, no answer ever came.

He stood, still staring at the slightly open door, forcing himself to break from the dirge that drowned his every thought. And as he stood there, he could never have imagined the effect of what had just transpired. He could never have guessed how much it meant to every life that ever lived, and ever would thereafter, what it meant in the grand scheme of things that he had found her in snow. That for once in his miserable, cursed life, Nihlus Kryik had been at exactly the right place at precisely the right time.

He could have never known at that moment, as tears threatened his eyes while he looked on helplessly at that empty door, how the events of that single day would go to form the woman she would become. How she would grow in secret to love him, the only thing in her short life that had ever shown her true kindness, or of the nature of her feelings for him, doomed as they would be. He could never have guessed the things he would confess to her about his life would fuel a curiosity in the young thing listening to his every word of the endless space beyond her planet. How this would give her a compassion for species outside her own, a rare thing, that would later go on to cement the fate of all. How she would devise an ingenious plan to return him to his star, far from her ice filled home. How every night for ten years of her life she would awake to look to the night sky only to wonder where he was, and that if when he had pressed his forehead to her in the burning moment they both knew he had to say goodbye, if it was as her heart told her, a kiss.

He could not have known what she meant to the fate of things, to the planet all around them, to the people just beginning to awaken in their cold little apartments to return to work, or even to the Asari Justicar, emerging to the surface at that very moment to begin the long trek back through the morning traffic to her hidden ship. He could not have known that he would one day have to shatter the girl's heart to save it, and that she would in turn learn to do the same thing to someone else, and regret it for the rest of her life. Nihlus never knew that his purpose was to pave the way for her path to entwine with another Turian. Someone that he would one day have an argument with in a shaded corner on the Citadel. Someone who would never make Spectre, and yet, against all odds, go on to change history in ways almost impossible to conceive. Someone whose name, along with hers, would be remembered as the greatest of their kind.

But as usual, Nihlus was in the dark. And so, standing up straight like the Turian his mother raised him to be, he did not suffer a single tear of weakness in spite of the starvation dissolving the muscles beneath his skin. He closed his eyes and breathed, reciting his lessons in his mind.

He felt the feeling return to his fingertips, as just behind him he heard the little human begin to stir.


	33. The Girl from Nowhere

Chapter 33: The Girl from Nowhere

"_So…you and him…you never…"_

"…_Never."_

"…_Did you…love him?"_

"…_I..."_

The gunshot. The clotted red clouds of Eden Prime. The Reaper hovering like death in the smoke stained sky.

"…_I…thought I did…"_

How green his eyes were the moment their lights went out.

"…_It…doesn't matter now…"_

"_I'm sorry...I didn't mean anything by it..."_

"…_No…But…"_

"…_But… what?"_

"…_It wasn't love…"_

"…_We don't have to talk about this if-"_

"_-No…we…I…I want to tell you…I don't want to hide anything...I'm tired of running."_

"…_Normally, I have a dry humored remark…but..."_

"_But nothing...Do you want to hear this?"_

Fingers tightening around hers.

"_...Yes."_

The light from the aquarium. The movement of the fish and water across the pale fire of her skin. The aching of their organs; the sated longing, the room now quiet of their sighs. The flush of flesh and the lure of sleep. So close to him, her breasts were pressed against his chest and her head was rested on the warm circlet of his cowl. Seduced, intoxicated, she stroked him,slipping her fingers down the silver ribbon between his sternum and his pelvis. In her voice was the truth, and though it tensed the flesh beneath the scars that proved just how fallible he was, he only breathed, watching; enraptured in a sensitivity for life that only pierced so clearly in the afterglow of sex. Time had dissolved in an opiate steam. It was the middle of the night, or the middle of the morning, or Armageddon, or the dawn of time - there was no way of knowing, and there was no mention or care. Detached; drifting in the morphine stream that was the emptiness of exhaustion, they floated; they merely floated. Finally, finally; the velvet dark was theirs.

The hours could have been years or seconds. The wings of the ship that carried them could have been gone, or never there, but what did it matter? Every moment, every breath against the skin, every kiss and word could have been a dream, a fantasy, something scrawled upon a stone, the letters in a message never sent. But even this whim evaporated in those sheets where reality had no weight. Male and female, entwined and whispering; the sweat and starlight lingering in the dopamine that made every moment too beautiful to bear.

And she began to confess slowly, with those eyes of hers that saw so clearly into the past.

"_I loved… the paint on his face… the turn of his head… his fringe…The look on his face when something would catch his eye…the way he spoke… the sound of him…the way he moved…the sound of his name…but…"_

But she could barely hear her own voice. Garrus's fingers were tracing her spine, and the chill and the warmth radiating from the edge of every nail that marked her with his touch pinned her to him, silently afraid; desperate, his touch holding her, reminding her that he was there, so that she would not float away. She watched his eyes slip over her, the longing in them, the desire to understand. Sometimes she felt that there was no way to make the inner workings of her heart known to him. For seventeen years she had kept what she felt for a quiet Turian that had shown her kindness, that had saved her in so many ways, mentored her, taught her, the most buried secret of her life. For seventeen years she had contemplated at first the memory of the feeling in her heart that felt so warm and yet when turned just the wrong way, caused suffering that brought her spirit to its knees.

For seventeen years she had admitted to no one why she liked their kind so much. Their ways, their language, or how the codices she had devoured of their culture and history as she lay in her bed at night, growing from a child to a young woman to a soldier in a barracks, swept her mind to dreams of a world she had never been, but could see shining silver in her mind, so real it hurt. And the figure. The silhouette of someone standing watch against a foreign sky. His face always turned away from her, even in her mind.

"…_But it was never love…only the fantasy of it. I was in love with the idea of him…"_

But even though she looked away, it could not conceal the flicker of the rain that fell defeated as that alien sky faded, her heart folding, burning from the image she had longed for but was never real.

"…_I…never...even knew him..."_

The sniper's mandible moved he spoke softly, his words so carefully chosen.

"_And when we met, you were still mourning."_

Her eyes closed, the pain almost unbearable.

"…_I had lost him only days before."_

"_So…when we argued…"_

"..._I tried to break your heart."_

The seconds between them became minutes, until she realized that there was no delicate way to say it. And so, after careful deliberation, Shepard being Shepard, conceded to the failure that had followed her for all her years. The anger that she let consume and mask the part of her that was, unnervingly – against her best efforts always, still, vulnerable. She took a breath and said the words that had been hiding in her since the moment she had seen him by the trees; a figure standing with his face away from her, like every dream before.

"_I did because_…_I thought I had no other option...I was wrong...I...thought there was a reason why he never...that he spurned me…He said once…well, there were a lot of things he said, but he said I would be the death of him…I never knew what that meant…until of course…it happened… For all the nights we spent together training…all the time he spent with me after he found me on Akuze…through the hospitals…the evaluations…the long talks with Anderson…He knew me over years…decades…and yet…he never let me in...But that was exactly the problem…he made the mistake of knowing me…and…I've been the kiss of death to everyone…everyone…that has ever known me…my parents…Kaidan…forty-nine people on Akuze…and him...And so, when I met you …I realized as we were getting closer, that I…I was getting attached…and it terrified me the moment when I started to think about…you…I couldn't shake the vision of you…gone…just…gone…if only because you made the mistake…of knowing me." _

Against every expectation, every fear that compelled her to think he would reject her, scorn her, give her a taste of her own medicine now that she had said it and admitted to hypocrisy- he did exactly nothing. He only looked at her with that he could that made her so weak she could die. She felt his hands move, warmth spreading around her shoulders, his fingers pressing into her skin as he drew her in to the plates of his face, pressing against her, warm and smooth. He pressed his brow to her, unmoving, and they listened to the quiet. At last he spoke, and she could see his eyes were in solipsism, a trait not limited to Drell.

"_When you told Sidonis…you had a lover…"_

"…_I was talking about you."_

"…_When…you said…your lover died…"_

"_You did…"_

Azure eyes focused. The face of Lantar Sidonis sifted away as the present opened before him, in the arms of the woman at his side.

_"Don't you remember?"_ He could hear her asking, as he could only stare, "_You're heart stopped…two minutes…you almost…"_

She had taught him the value of 'the interrupt'. The silk of her lips brushed him as he kissed her, as he had carefully practiced with his tongue. The foreign custom that he was still unsure of, apprehensive – but that he had found that he could lose himself in. The rush of it, the feeling, the intimacy, the taste. Her lips could move in ways he could scarcely imagine until she had shown him, and it caused him a certain insecurity he couldn't shake. Was his mouth too hard - too unemotive? Would he hurt her if he pressed too hard - his worst fear was to cut her with his teeth. The fears rushed through his mind that his body tried to drown, the voice in his mind only quieting as he felt her body weigh on him as she fell closer. His stomach leapt into his chest the moment her fingers sought his mandibles and pulled, opening his mouth so that she could feel the teeth that he feared so much to use, running her tongue atop their jagged spires. Her thighs opened and descended, paralyzing him where he lay helpless, already exhausted, but too worn out to resist. Fingers slipping, reaching, stroking, stroking upwards – her touch too soft, too soft, _she knew that _ – a sordid tease.

His eyes opened so close to hers, her subtle smile as she stole from him the visor that he even wore to bed, slipping where he couldn't reach. That nymphet, luring smile, as she watched his eyes glaze over as she gently stroked and moved and coaxed him back to what they both wanted again. Her hand slid up and down him, kneading the spear she had grown to worship beneath his glassy skin, the size and feel of it collapsing her nerves under butterflies and breathlessness. Movement – she was beginning to move; that dizzying stride – her thighs, spreading, opening - too much, too much was her breath as it began to labor – her hair as it fell over him as she dipped his curved and pointed head into her as she leaned over him – soft, soft again, so maddeningly soft . Harder, everything harder. He kissed her, again, feeling the thing that enslaved him to her every whim filling, gorging – probing, pushing, slipping deeper into a familiar warm abyss as he pulled her to his lap, his hands freed, never closing his eyes, feeling the flush of life fall back to him. His finger slipped through her hair and behind her ear, disabling her translator, as he pulled her down and onto him, gripping her by the hair and whispering to her open lips the words she had been waiting to hear for her entire life.

I need you.

* * *

The days slipped by them like sand through an open hand. Two months passed in a blur of dust out of the windows which weren't large enough to frame the starlight that whispered that time was never on their side. The secret to the disappearance of countless human colonists had expunged in a puff of spider silk and lies.

The collector ship been a nightmare by every definition of the word. _You cannot escape your destiny, Shepard. _The Repear that had attacked her personally on Horizon, Harbinger, had made its presence known again. Although for the life of her she did not fear them, there was always something that bothered her about being addressed directly. _You are arrogant, you will learn. _Before, in the time of her life when she had met her first nemesis Sovereign, the nightmares of her youth had returned. And now their shadow was leaning over her. The cold sweats in the evening, just as she would wake with the edge of something important sliding through her grasp. Though she would try and try to recall the dreams, never did she see them. It was not the Reapers nor the endless waves of their slaves that swayed her, or made her look over her shoulder when she would walk to her quarters at night. It was the feeling, the familiar, unmistakable feeling, like a ringing in her ears, of something right there – yet invisible. On the edge of her mind rang the tinny, absurd, and yet completely tangible sense that there was something watching from the spaces between the stars.

_And if ____you__ gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze ____back__ into ____you._

It was what Ashley had written in the flyleaf of the bible she had not so accidentally left in her quarters the last time they had truly talked, a lifetime ago when they had almost agreed on something. Shepard had always found a warm irony in it; a Nietzsche quote in the ol' Revised Standard Edition, but she couldn't blame Ash for trying; the contradiction suited them so much more than she could have known. It was the night they had met Saren on Virmire and lost Kaidan to the flames. Kaidan. His face still swam before her mind; the look of anger in his eyes when he had rounded off on her, shouting at her for the first and only time in his life. The day he had ridden hours from Vancouver to Montreal just to see her – and she had wept, showing him a dying alien in a wheelchair. The memory of that boy was so clear, so indisputably there, even though he was not. He was gone. Erased, somewhere with Nihlus. Somewhere with all the others, whose faces were already gone. And the thing that ate her, taking an inch of her life with every time she thought of the alien and the biotic, was that one day she would begin to forget their faces too.

The uneasiness pervaded her. Perhaps it was the Illusive Man; irate that his pet project had ripped out the majority of his surveillance nodules on the ship whose master was still a matter of contention – he had shown not a shred of remorse when his Lady Lazarus had burst onto his comm unit, her fists clenched and coiled as if she could reach in and strangle him through the hologram. He had never admitted to the trap by such _"wholly inaccurate language". _No, it was an _assessment_, _a test_ – _a measure of tactical foresight. _Not a trap, never a trap, _Shepard you are too shortsighted. I must admit, I had higher expectations of your judgment..._

But he wasn't her father, no one was. And yet she saw him trying and trying the oldest management trick in the book – the art of manipulating one's employees to pine eternally for approval. From the sidelines she watched his tactic work wonders on Miranda, who could explain away in perfect legalese precisely how T.I.M. Had never intended for anyone to be in immediate danger, how the actions of a man of his connections and intelligence were never in err, never by accident, and _surely he had his reasons_. It was during one of these moments, when she had zoned out watching Miranda's painstakingly glossed lips move to the pattern of the words that always sounded rehearsed, that Shepard realized that she had only come to replace Ashley with Miranda in her absence. There she was, another brunette. Another alpha female at odds with her every intuition. Another poster-child for obedience, following her cause blindly and without question. Blind commitment. His only flaw. It was what had killed him, slipping through the white paint on his face in an exit wound of blue. It was what had dripped from him, when tearshot she had turned him over, because he had died with his eyes away from the killer that he trusted more than the roaring in his gut. Blind commitment had killed Archangel, and taught Garrus the lesson that Mierin never could.

Blind commitment. She wouldn't have it, and she thirsted for those with no such delusions.

The search for Shepard's band of miscreants, thieves and demigods was finally drawing to a close as the final members of the strangest crew she had ever lead began to settle into their particular corners of the Normandy. Zaeed Massani (or Crocodile Dundee – Joker's joke that was lost on a crowd that didn't spend their time sifting through ancient twentieth century vids on the extranet when there was so much porn and shopping to be had) had settled into the bowels of the Normandy weeks before. He spent his time doing little else than killing, swigging bourbon that was more expensive than half the upgrades on the ship, and sharpening his collection of antique Bowie knives – of which Garrus had made the mistake to call outdated, but thankfully, had rectified with his shared fondness for Jessie. Zaeed had never heard that Turians believed weapons could have souls. So much did this thought strike the leather faced old merc that he shared a silence with the Turian that he rarely gave, and even rarer was the bottle he had tossed the sniper on his way out with that certain nod that understood between males of any species. (When he returned to the battery, Garrus translated the label to realize that the bourbon was older than his immediate family combined. He immediately cracked it. He did not tell Shepard.)

Kasumi. She had materialized upon the Normandy on the morning after Shepard and Garrus's escape to the Citadel. Shepard had accidentally discovered her luxuriating on a bed strewn with roses, diamonds and silk. The thief had come on a tide of luscious splendor had manifested in the port observation deck without warning or sound. Overnight, the once empty room had transformed into a hedonists paradise; an unlikely palanquin furnished with perfumed linens, sculpture and artwork amidst the card table and bar. Shepard was seized in her tracks by the sight of the thief herself – crowned atop her dragon's cache of gleaming splendor. Soft Japanese lips rose from a voluptuous, velvet bound tome of ancient literature labeled _The Venus in Furs_ to smile her Cheshire cat grin. Unable to even blink at the strangeness of it all, Shepard had to forcibly take a breath before beginning to ask a string of obvious questions. These of course only lead the charmed yet furious Commander to Miranda's office ten very interesting minutes later.

And there of course, there she was. Sitting primly with her straight spine, beauteously, regally; collected at her gleaming desk with its papers and codices all in a ballet of perfection, angles and control. And the looks, the daggers, and the 'conversation'. The give and take, the fencing, the dueling. The verbal swordplay of two people who repress the instinct to eviscerate each other only under the thin shield of a common cause. Who would raise their voice first? Whose evasive answers would win the dogfight, the double-talk and the _of course Commander, I may disagree with your decision to take time off but I only felt it was necessary to take the initiative to expand the crew with Ms. Goto while you were gone. Subsequently, as in your Executive Officer, I am perfectly capable of commanding the ship in your absence, and since you insisted on leaving for the Citadel without any inclination of returning, it was not only my right but the expectation of my (and your) superiors to continue with the mission on your behalf..._

The days came and went. All indistinguishable, all a wave in the unending dark of intergalactic travel; the hum of the ship punctuated only by the blue-shift flash of a mass relay jump. And somewhere in that darkness, on a ship that looked like the spine of a Lovecraftian god ripped out and suspended in the void, lay a drifting Blue Suns prison that no one had ever heard of named, aptly, The Purgatory. On to it went Shepard, Garrus (_"It's about damn time!" _whispered Chakwas to her coffee, her lips hovering over it as she shook her head incredulously, watching the Turian moving in his serpentine stride beside the Commander; the pair side-by-side and armored again) and Samara, the cold-eyed Justicar whose unadorned, sober honesty Shepard had taken an unlikely, if not careful, liking to.

The bony, angled halls of the prison swallowed the warriors as they embarked into the unknown. They walked with an indefinable anxiety poisoning the dust floating in stasis through the stale air. One standoff with the Warden's guards over a misguided attempt to separate Shepard from her M-5 Phalanx, thirty tense minutes in a holding room and the river of blood later, Shepard looked to Garrus and Samara and shook her head, almost smiling in the face of certain carnage. A not-so former vigilante and a Justicar captured on a ship full of murderers, rapists and Blue Suns.

Well, it would certainly make for some fond memories. Like the time Garrus Vakarian started a prison riot.

* * *

"_Shepard, my barrier is fading!"_

"_HOLD IT, SAMARA! GARRUS, WHERE THE FUCK IS JACK!?"_

But the blue disks in his eyes could see nothing in the neon storm of imperceptible code, and even as he said the words he could see Tali'Zorah's prodigal mask mocking him as was forced to admit that the defense system was beyond him.

"_I can't find him!"_

Shepard's face, white as a sheet and bleeding, lost its last shade of color. The shitstorm of a bad call that was the entire extraction had landed them in in the eye of a swiftly approaching hurricane. They had fought and clawed their way out of the out-processing unit that could have been their doom, cut a swathe of violence through wave after wave of mercenaries to carve their way to the central control room of the entire prison; a reinforced, bullet-proof tower surrounded in 360 degrees by a thousand cells of ravenous murderers – screaming, salivating like dogs in a pit as they watched the dozen mercenaries behind the vaulted door pulled the trigger on the bomb.

Boom.

The armored bodies pouring through the slivered remnants of the portal poured in the illusion of slow-motion. The fire of Shepard's omniblade unfolding. The Justicar's eyes turning white as the lights above began flicker as she focused on the face of a man who was about to become mist. The percussion of the bullets. The heat of shrapnel. The look in Shepard's eyes as she landed round after round, painting the walls of the tiny room aside the Justicar, tearing men to pieces as their blood ran down around her like an unleashed pagan god. And then it simply came, the realization opening like a flower in the carnage. The calculations in his mind spun through their failed perceptions until the solution emerged in his mind in a moment of indescribable clarity.

_Shut it down. Shut it all down._

_Take that, Tali._

All looked to the scream of the alarms that heralded the collective clang of every door on the prison as they all opened all at once.

Garrus watched Shepard turn, the hair raised on her neck beneath her armor – her eyes wide and incomprehensible as she realized exactly what he'd done. Their glances met as the howling of the approaching swarm raised to a deafening, living roar. Writhing, filthy – the slithering, screaming mob flowed and tore out of every cell and went screaming across the prison, unhindered by the hail of gunfire as every merc in the entire facility had to make the split second choice between pursuing Shepard and saving themselves. Shepard watched the chaos shatter into a thousand angry pieces before her, feeling the turn of her gut as she watched the anarchy spread to their feet like fire.

"You released them."

She stated flatly, staring at him with an expression somewhere between fury and reverence. Behind her Samara lifted an armored corpse and whipped it into the cowering group of mercs, toppling them like bowling pins. Garrus pulled back his destroyed omnitool – utterly melted beyond function from the massive overheating it took to turn the hack against the security counsel. He tore it away from the fried computer and unfolded his Vindicator, trying not to think about the disparity between its thermal clip capacity compared to the M-8 Avenger still laying in pieces on Shepard's nightstand, abandoned aside his cleaning kit and a tube of (as they had found) multipurpose lubricant.

"It was our only option – I couldn't find Jack anywhere – too many encryption, not enough time. So release them all and we have a better chance of finding Jack out there trying to escape with the rest of them then being pinned back in here."

She had asked for someone without blind faith. She realized then that she had gotten what she wished for.

She watched him crouch further down, sliding from the cover of the control desk to her spot aside Samara. Already the ranks of mercenary guards packing the entrance to the control room were thinning – numbers of them running down the stairs to rush upon the prisoners below tearing the very panels and wiring from the ship to wield as weapons.

He tossed her a thermal clip. Catching it and clacking it into her M-22 Eviscerator, she didn't take even a second to entertain an argument the logical semantics of one insane option over another. She initiated her communicator, motioned for Garrus to push forward, and began to shout what would be a whole string of words at Joker that he wasn't going to like, but given his prior experience with Shepard's particular fondness for, as he so eloquently put it, 'unsolveable-clusterfuck situations', didn't surprise him in the least. It went something like this:

"_Joker! This is Shepard- can you read me!?"_

"_Commander, what the shit is going on down there!? The whole ship is blazing up like a roman-"_

_EDI: Shepard, sensors indicate that the Purgatory's security network has been critically compromised, cauti-"_

"_EVERYONE SHUT UP! Joker – Joker, depart from dock NOW or you're going to have about a thousand recently emancipated prisoners trying to trying to breach the Normandy!"_

"_WHAT!? You let them go!?"_

"_Long story – just bring her into orbit and fire on anything that approaches – DO NOT ATTEMPT SHIPSIDE EXTRACTION - we'll rendezvous by other means! EDI, is the Purgatory equipped with escape craft!?"_

_EDI: Yes. The Purgatory contains sixty-two civilian class four-man escape modules. Uploading the coordinates to your omnidevice...now. However, the limited number of the modules suggests unfavorable odds in attaining a vessel given the number of convicts bound for escape and your estimated time of arrival at the dock. However, given the compromised state of the Purgatory's security systems, a complete lock-down of the prison's mass-selective airlock is possible. _

"_Do it! Shut it down! Don't let a single ship through until we're on one!"_

And that was the plan. To an outside observer, it would have looked almost controlled, maybe even well managed. But for the three people dodging gunfire and the whole bodies of crazed murderers literally throwing themselves into their lines of fire, they were running for their lives.

They fought their way down the emergency staircase and out into the cell block throng, not daring to take the elevator – currently being ripped by a dozen filthy hands from its support cables. Garrus and Shepard held the front, his AR beside her shotgun, clearing a path of gore through the solid wall of convicts and mercenaries that swarmed before them while Samara escorted them with her biotic barrier. Every step was like broken glass – every moment hot and horrid. Side-by-side they pushed bitterly, seizing every inch of ground they took from the seething, burning riot. From somewhere there was fire beating down from overhead; showers of sparks falling white hot as the ship was torn flesh from bone amidst the haunted chatter of failing AI voices calling out evacuation protocols in glitched-out languages, all sputtering from the walls of the ship in its final rattle of death. The blood slipped and squeaked beneath their boots as they trudged and pushed through the waves and waves that never stopped; intensifying – growing denser and denser – the blood raining around them with the fire and the screaming as hall after hall, throng after throng the doors opened.

The rows and rows of the pleasant green escape modules lined the hangar in scattered tangles of twisted metal and flickering wire. Screaming through the massive arches of the dock, set in silhouette by the blue field of the airlock field beyond ran the howling throng in its most fervent; a living swarm of countless gnashing teeth in a blood drenched feeding frenzy for resources burning with the ship. And the swarm turned; twitching, clawing – thrashing – running – sprinting to the three strangers at the door – the Turian and Human exchanged glances - raised their weapons -

And the Justicar lifted them all, twenty-two in number, coiled them into a ball floating thirty feet from the simmering floor. Without a thought she threw them clear across the hangar where they smashed into the dock portal in a smear, their organic flesh incinerating to ash through the mass selective field.

The Turian and Commander turned, seeing the Justicar as they had never seen her before. She merely flexed her fingers, saying nothing as the chaos spilled around them.

"So basically, never piss you off." Said Garrus still staring at her. Samara looked at him serenely.

"Anger is to be admonished. There is only focus. For example, to your left."

He turned just as Shepard vaporized an errant mercenary into red mist.

"Point taken."

The roar of a spacefaring engine cleaved the bedlam with a stream of heat. Shepard, Garrus and Samara turned, watching as an escape module rise unsteadily from the claws of the riot to jettison towards the docking barrier. They rushed forward, pushing and shooting through the crowd – and then the ship, surrounded by a blue aura of biotics, simply froze in midair. Slowly, slowly it began to move, pulling back towards them faster and faster and then – in a surge of ever brighter blue – hurtling, thrown – crashing to the ground. They dove, scattering – just before the rampaging vehicle cleared the path of prisoners between them and the center of the room into a collective streak of organs and carnage on the floor. Shepard snapped to her feet – the riot had become a bloodbath. Hurriedly, she searched the room for Garrus – there – he was ten meters away, smashing some poor bastard's teeth out with his stock. Samara – biotics – no, human – female, dripping in tattoos, with a fist that couldn't have been twenty years old clenched around the throat of a Turian with no paint.

And there she was, all alight with blood and ink running down her skin.

Time stopped as Shepard watch the living canvas before her pull the dying Turian to her face to whisper in his ear just before she raised him high above her head. Her fists with their slender, bitten fingers twisted her biotics around him, and in a rain of blood pulled, as dozens watched in horror, his body into two. As the cobalt baptism ran down her in that moment where there was no sound, as every free running prisoner who had seen the pieces that once were Warden Kuril come crashing down in slaughter, grey eyes met irises so dark they were freezing. Shepard stood to her full height, begun a very slow approach, and realized with resounding clarity that there was something about Jack that was quite familiar.


	34. Lady Lazarus

Chapter 34: Lady Lazarus

Miranda could still recall the scent of the champagne in the glass.

The taste of the carbonation against her nose. The feel of it. The tingle, almost pain. An evening that had passed a year before struck across her eyelids in ringing clarity. That selective memory which stole her from sleep, as it did then, came with a familiar sharpened ache. There with her, swimming in the cold skin beneath her sheets were the finely crafted genes that held all the privileges of her youth. Beauty. Reflex. Intelligence. The efforts of the tutors. The rain slicked English boarding schools steeped in good names and tradition. The tactical carbine courses that came with every birthday. Her strength. Her resilience. Every battle she had ever won, every strategy she had ever thought, all laid bare in those moments between dreams that she preferred to spend alone. The quiet of the night and the slow, low rumbling knowledge of a manifest destiny that was never hers. The guilt.

A dossier, a body on a gurney, a nanochip glistening beneath a microscope. _No_, said the man in the 10,000 credit suit. _No. Her choices are what rally them, flawed as they may be. Deny them that, and her symbolism means nothing._

Jane. Jane of Arc. Jane Eyre. Plain Jane. Jane Doe. Plain Jane Shepard. Shepard.

She saw the silhouette of her father standing before the fire place of their ancestral home with a scotch in his hand. Her eyes opened, awaking from the dream only to drift to a memory. The man in her mind changed before her tightly closed eyes. The figure became a suit standing before a burning star. She could see him so clearly, carved into her mind. The tailored clothes, the expensive, tightly maintained hair. The perfumed cigarette. The slightest whisper of cologne. The silken lining of a gilded life. He stood in silhouette against the red star that filled every corner of her vision; the blinding light of his ambition. Overpowering. A force as insidious and beautiful as his cause. His power; an immeasurable wealth with no beginning and no end. His world.

Her world.

The champagne called to her, fizzing in its glass. Her eyes fell fixed on it, watching the flames of the red giant swim against the crystal. Fire.

Red. The color of that hair. A color impossible to match, but not for a lack of trying. No implant or synthetic keratin could match the timbre of that vermillion and it had been the bane of the past week of her research. How she hated it – despised it; that illusive, impossible hue. Even the commander's hair had antagonism woven through its core. She _had _to be a red head, she had to be difficult. She had to be the exact color that had been wiped out of 99 percent of the human population due to the wonders of natural selection. And Miranda had to get it right. The investors didn't want a copy. They didn't want a double, a clone, or a replicant with an AI construct. No. They wanted the 'real' thing. Real.

Real. Miranda could still recall watching the others gliding happily onto her father's shuttle. Seven of them in number, all shining raven hair, tartan uniforms and sweet sixteen skin. How they waved at her from the windows with the Earthen sun caught forever in their eyes. Up, up, smaller and smaller. Then gone. Gone. Oriana's hand in hers. Life, the reward for their perfection. Perfection. Reality. Two things never meant to coincide. Miranda Lawson became an expert on this cognitive dissonance. It went to define her life, her exodus, and her career at Cerberus. But lying on that table with those first few strands of hair fighting through the scar tissue was her greatest dissonance yet.

It had just begun to grow back, then but a peach fuzz on her skull. It was partially because of this seemingly insignificant thing that there was champagne that night, in that glass office with its secret location. It was the night the science team's report had come in. The night she had given the announcement that the skin weaves were working, that neurogenesis had not failed them as it did so many times before. That the famed commander's body had overcome her own immune system to accept the protein scaffolding – in fact, multiple proteins, even those alien to hers. Miranda had even managed to make her immune to the ravages of ingesting dextro based materials – in the far off case that the bulletproof soldier would be stranded one day far from levo rations, or at least so went the report. It was the day that the tattered body with its new skin laying atrophied on a table had a chance of being recognizable again. It was the night Miranda Lawson knew she was going to be promoted.

Even though she had succeeded at everything she had ever tried, the rush of winning was still the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. Miranda sipped her champagne. Just as she thought. There was no comparison to the taste of success.

It was better than an orgasm.

The man in the suit asked the woman in white,

"What's her condition?"

"Comatose."

"Obviously. I see you've been working on your sense of humor, Ms. Lawson."

Miranda set her glass down, focusing on the cloud of side stream smoke that lingered between them, staring straight into it.

"We are moving forward. It seems we've finally managed to push her beyond merely maintaining her circulatory system. Neuroimaging reports indicate our reconstruction of her cerebral cortex is currently at 60 percent. The neurologists have informed me of neural activity which may indicate the presence of dreams."

"Good." Said the man in the suit as he watched his star burn, "Dreams are born from memories. Memories are born from experience. And experience," He turned, smiling as he took a calculated drag from his cigarette, "...is what we need."

She watched him, considering whether or not she would bite.

"I don't follow."

He smiled, surveying his cigarette. Miranda Lawson's curiosity was indeed a rare occurrence.

"Have you ever read any of the reports published from the Genoa project?"

Miranda leaned back, watching him. She kept very careful control of her of expression, keeping it blank.

"The project partially inspired by the Pragia findings...No. I haven't had the pleasure."

"I highly encourage it." He said, beginning to gently pace as he began to reminisce, "Pragia was, admittedly, a nightmare. The subjects were far too young for clear cut psychological results – but that is the obstacle with working with biotics. The eezo-rich nerve nodules we believe are responsible for their ability only begin to mature in puberty. But, you already know that."

She watched him smoke.

"Psychological results? So we weren't just trying to optimize implants, I imagine."

"Well," said the man, sucking on his cigarette, "There was funding for that too. But the subjects on Pragia – we also interested in their perception of a cadre of abstract concepts. One of my favorites is 'choice'. We didn't leave them much in many cases, or at least, we didn't lead them to believe so."

He found her piercing gaze.

"We were interested to find a somewhat complex correlation between psychological trauma and biotic ability."

His cold eye narrowed on her from across the smoke.

"You would be amazed what humans are capable of when they are impassioned. When they believe that they are trapped."

Miranda drank just a little more, swallowing mechanically.

"My father always said that suffering begets passion, and passion begets strength. Strength paves the way for control, and control is power."

"Yes...but..." he said, still pacing, toying with the concept, "...what begets suffering?"

Miranda rolled her blue eye away indignantly as the words slithered across her lips.

"I don't know. I was never one for his _musings."_

The Illusive Man smiled in his knowing way, watching Miranda's sphinx-like expression from over the ember at his lips.

"The answer is choice."

Their eyes met.

"The Genoans had choice. The subjects on Pragia – they didn't. Their bodies were trapped because their minds were. And yet the body count of the Genoa project was so much higher, though we didn't control for sample groups in nearly the same ways...In many way the work was sloppy, not something possibly even repeatable...but indicatory nonetheless. It is as if – when faced with the inevitable, humans react in a completely binary way. They either see the light, or they do not. Many simply fold, but some...some stand against wind...even thrive. Belief, Miranda. Faith. Hope. These are all the things which trap the mind...and free it. Control. And control-"

"Is power."

"You've been listening."

"Your corporate speeches are very inspiring." She said with uncaring sarcasm.

"But there's a dichotomy."

"Really."

"Yes – there is in anything truly interesting. If control is power – who should wield it? Should be obvious?"

"No...Dictatorships never last, do they?"

"Not the careless ones." He drew against his cigarette. "Do you believe your actions have purpose?"

Her brow furrowed.

"What?"

He started again, slowly. The blood colored light washed down his face and onto his clothes.

"Do you believe that you are in control of your destiny? That the choices you have made have purpose?"

"Of course."

He nodded, assuredly, like he's just won a bet he'd fixed himself.

"That's what I like about you, Miranda. You know yourself so well. Anyone else would have thought for a minute, reconsidered their regrets, but not you."

Silence swept the room.

"The illusion of choice is the hand of power. Whoever is the architect of this illusion holds control by the throat. Your request for the T98 cognitive augmentation device for Ms. Shepard is denied."

He crushed his cigarette into ash as Miranda watched, glass in hand.

"I do not deal in false positives."

* * *

Miranda reached the office in the middle of the night. The interns, the scientists and doctors - all had returned to the labyrinths of which intellectuals and students are so fond. Perhaps there was a holiday - or weekend. She didn't have a family, she didn't care. She was more drunk than she had intended, but she was in solitude, and this alone satisfied her. Gliding in with reckless effortlessness, she slid into Shepard's chamber, turning off the lights after they had switched on to greet her. No. This would happen in the dark.

The whir of machines and the whisper of the respirator hummed like static through her thickened hearing. The uncomfortable, modernist chair aside the inclusive chamber that buffered the commander's raw flesh from the elements squeaked as the insolently beautiful woman sagged into it, disregarding her own Victorian expectations of posture. She turned her unsteady head towards the naked thing growing in the tube like a venomous plant in a terrarium. A dry laugh escaped her, saturated with ethanol.

"You win. Bet you think...that's pretty funny, don't you."

Silence rang and the frost shone in Miranda's eyes. Her head sank, her vision falling to her gleaming hands; crested with pristine moon-like nails.

"I know about you...I know...everything...about you...I know about your deceased teacher, I read his recommendations...I know prose so thick with violet metaphor could have only been written by someone who cared far too much for you, and far not enough for his own reputation...love leave...imagine that of all things is what gets a spectre executed...I know about your orphanage...I know about your disappearance, your petty crimes...your time on Omega living in the gutters...And...even more...do I know about your _tryst with C-SEC turian...how utterly...crass..."_

Miranda's lips sneered as she leaned into the glass, her inebriated breath frothing over it like ice.

"...Vulgar."

Her eyes traveled down the woman's body, eyeing her proportions - imagining it. Lingering on the thought.

"Did it hurt...Did you...your body...go into shock_._..pushed up against...a seven foot..."

Her lips searched for the correct word; her shuttered mind and bitterness not allowing her admit to herself the first that fell upon her tongue.

_"Animal."_

She listened to the machines breathing for the woman at her side, who would remain unaware of what was unfolding aside her.

"I...I don't need anybody...Did you know that? You - you surround yourself with people - aliens...strangers...All the reports say, you go out of your way to please them...get under their skin...get them...to like you...But I...I see this for what it truly is...And it's weakness..."

For a moment she saw Oriana's face reflected in her own within the glass.

"...Distraction."

As she expected, there came no reply, and once again there she sat, with only herself as a witness. Miranda sank back into her chair, staring into space as the room dissolved around her. Her memories consumed everything in sight. Her voice softened, a whisper punctuated with the all of the rejected emotions she never tended.

_"Soon...it won't be a dream anymore...I know you're dreaming now...I used to dream as well...although I can't be certain of what anymore...I drank too much tonight...because they promoted me...for you...For all my work on bringing their fantasy to life...But...I know this isn't what you want...And when you open your eyes...it's going to be even less...and that is why I do not look forward to meeting you...I...don't trust you, Shepard...I don't trust anyone anymore."_

One year later lay Miranda Lawson, cold inside her bed. Hearing her own voice echo back to her, with that selective memory.

* * *

These are my hands. My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident. The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!'

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart- It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus, I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash - You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

Herr God,

Herr Lucifer

Beware Beware.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

-Excerpt, Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath, 1967


	35. Solipsism

Chapter 35: Solipsism

Beneath the spires of Illium a woman stood apart from the crowd. She watched her memories pass by in the shadows of strangers. Beside the holographic trees she stood; tall, tapered like a sword. A cup of coffee hung listlessly in her hand, the list of repairs and procurements she had so carefully noted already gone, having taken her no more than just a few hours of work. It was a quiet disappointment that the day had passed by so quickly. It was a far overdue repair and resupply drop, full of the sort of routine tasks that can soothe a disquieted mind. To a passer by she may have looked like a woman who needed a break and perhaps decided to have one over coffee and a wide view of the shipyard. Reality couldn't be further from the truth.

Shepard watched the workmen moving their skilled hands over the Normandy SR-2. Asari, turian, salarian. Their forms were tiny in the distance, their arms moving in miniature as shields were scanned, irradiated dust was cleared from wings, and Joker's bent form stood vigilant. Not a finger touched the ship without his watchful eyes surveying for fingerprints. She stood watching him observing the workmen, but inside her was the keen awareness that somewhere uncountable colonists were being culled. It burned guilt within her heart. She drank her coffee. It tasted like ash.

From where she stood she could see the city lights glide over the silver body of her ship; glances of color in fuchsia, vermillion, and emerald. A breeze pushed through her hair. The night wind took her to somewhere else. A familiar voice. Calm, certain, and buzzing in her ear. The darkness of the night faded around her, becoming snow once again.

"_Target marked. Take the shot."_

Seven years ago the target was still so far away. She could still see it, bucking wildly in the ice slewn wind of the unforgiving Trategian wasteland. The lines of Nihlus's shadow leaning over her as he spotted – hard and black, making her hands shake more violently than the cold. Spectre sniper training, remedial level. She could ghillie, she could track, but she just couldn't keep her hands still. She knew she could never be a sniper, but he still made her try.

She knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't. The universe was too big and the target too small.

Impossible odds.

But he still made her try.

"_Do it, Jane."_

"_I-can't!"_

"_You can and you will. Breathe."_

"_I can't do it – it's moving too fast."_

"_No arguments. On my mark. Three, two, one -"_

BANG.

The datapad exploded into shards as it smashed against the wall of the Normandy's bottom deck in a biotic blue flash. Jack's eyes were embers in the dark. Wolflike. Wounded.

"_What the hell is wrong with you!?"_

"_Me? ME? You hand me some neutered horseshit on Cerberus typeface and YOU ask what the fuck is wrong with ME!? "_

"_Calm down!"_

She could still see just the way Jack's dark eyes slitted, the words dripping poison from her lips. She looked like a snake when she wanted to, thought Shepard. Jack the gorgon demigod. Jack the hand of Hades. With her bald head and her demon's eyes, the tattoos that glistened on her lithe body like scales. What was so familiar, what was so unnerving, consuming – what, what? She watched the wiry young thing pace, violent and angry as any inmate in spite of her almost delicate frame. Ignoring the splitting sound of swears and refuse being blasted around the room, Shepard focused on Jack fixedly, almost seeing her face move in slow motion. Her lips spitting the words. There was something so familiar there.

_"Calm down? There wasn't shit in that file. You lied to me. You fucking lied to me."_

"I didn't know. I gave you what they gave me."

"And you trusted them? Cerberus? You actually fucking trusted Cerberus?"

"...Yes."

Their eyes met in the dark.

"I didn't have a choice."

Jack the gorgon. Jack the serpent spitting truths wrapped in venom.

_"That's never an excuse."_

Shepard's heart sank beneath the dark holes in the grated floor. The fear that gnawed at her from the moment Jack had made her demands as the Purgatory twisted to its death around them had been affirmed. The files Shepard had requested from Cerberus in return for Subject Zero's participation were useless. Whatever truth there was to be known was far from her, from Jack, and from the pieces of the datapad on the floor.

The promise of the unedited story of Pragia had been Shepard's only card in convincing Jack to board the escape craft in the destruction of the Purgatory. But now it was lost. Just that simple thing was all she needed, and it was so far away. As the commander watched the hatred brim in Jack's eyes, those dark portals which gave her an overwhelming sense of deja vu, she felt shame. Shame that she had failed her, shame that she had believed even for a second that Miranda would be truthful, just this once.

Miranda. Docking the Normandy on Illium for repairs had been her idea, and Shepard – too ragged from running from system to system to chase Harbinger and the Collectors to no avail – had not questioned her motives. The ship was beginning to lose its virgin factory direct gleam. Joker had lamented just that morning of the cockpit lacking "that new ship smell" to Shepard's amused chagrin over her coffee, (which as when times had become uncertain on the Normandy SR-1, had become the cornerstone of her nutrition.) The sunless interstellar days had all begun to filter by too fast. The datapad and the calendar were becoming increasingly frenzied with objectives that seemed to arise out of nowhere like wildfires needing water. The Collector attacks on human colonies had begun as a trickle and become a deluge. Horizon, Harbinger, The Collector ship. The dead were piling in their graves but she was no closer to the truth. Why was it happening, and would it ever end?

Harbinger.

Harbinger.

In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

_The flesh is a machine._

The flesh is a machine.

Flesh.

Blood on Thane's lips. He tried to hide it. He tried.

His machine was failing.

Power.

The light fading from Sidonis's eyes.

Power.

The silver letters of Kaidan's name, shining on a placard.

Power.

She had none of it.

In the basement of the Normandy a promise lay broken on the floor.

Miranda; watchful, raven Miranda. Writing on her datapad, sending her reports. The head of the Lazarus project knew something Shepard did not; the feeling was unshakeable. For all of Miranda's pragmatism, Shepard could no longer dismiss the anxiety that Lawson was watching every move she made. And while Shepard led the crew she had spent months building into danger after danger, oversaw every new upgrade to every conceivable weakness of the Normandy, and spent her evenings plotting resource probe launches for every planet they passed by – there in the darkness was Miranda Lawson, hanging on to some truth she refused to share. The betrayal of Jack's request for the dossier of Project Pragia had been the last straw. Shepard sipped her coffee, invisible in the crowd. She heard the memory of her dead instructor's voice once again whisper in her ear.

_Clear your mind.  
_

Far away she watched the port-side doors slide open.

_Observe without judgment._

A turian whisper on a planet filled with snow.

_See._

Violet light ringing through Miranda's hair, unmistakable even a half-kilometer away.

Three fingers sliding onto her shoulder.

She turned – fist raised – she swung -

Garrus Vakarian caught her fist in his hand.

Their eyes met, grey in blue. His low rumble. Velvet in her ear.

"I've been looking for you."

"Dammit Garrus," she breathed, adrenaline searing through her veins as she caught sight of him, startled as if she had seen a ghost, "you should now by now not to sneak up on me."

The turian tilted his head, surveying her through his one eye in that alien way of his. She knew turians did that sometimes when they were considering or thinking. A foreign body language. Look through one eye, swivel the head slightly, look through the other. It was for the same reason they all shot with both of their eyes open. To see from every angle. But then again, turian eyes didn't have parallax.

Nihlus had told her this.

Garrus lowered her hand, but still held it. A heaviness rang between them as the movements of Illium floated by indifferently. She felt his fingers quietly begin to stroke her palm. His visor stung her vision with its brightness. She focused past it to look at him closer, and there she saw fire flicker in his eyes.

She looked around, paranoid that someone would see them together. He saw the fear in her, radiating from her skin. The turian surveyed the crowd with a quick look and silently guided her to the shadows of a docking platform around the corner. The wind was warm even in the high altitude, but cold enough so that when he moved closer to her she could feel his body heat even through his armor.

His hand, his long fingers, slipped across the small of her back igniting the skin beneath her clothes. Her heart was racing; public – it was too public. Even aboard the ship they had to be careful, so careful to hide in plain sight. She could only sneak past Miranda's office so many times a day to slip into the battery. There were only so many days a week when she could answer his soft knock on her door in the middle of the night; only so many times he could pin her against the hard railing down by the drive core when the engineers were away. At about 3 am the drive core room was the best place to be on the Normandy if you wanted to leave the sheets but didn't want to worry about noise or interruption.

Garrus had told her this.

He leaned in to her. She felt his warm breath sinking near her neck; the clicking of his palate purring in his mouth. She moved the hand that held the coffee cup and blocked his chest with it, squirming slightly as she caught his eye. The anxiety in her was too much to ignore.

"We can't," she whispered, looking at him seriously, "I know it's been a while but - "

He slipped his fingers around the cup, pulled it from her hand, and threw it on the aluminum floor.

"_Hey!"_

"_Too much caffeine, Shepard. It's making you edgy."_

She went to twist away from him, trying to get a glimpse at the Normandy, but he held her hand firmly. She could feel his talons pulling on her wrist._  
_

"I can't – someone will see!" She hissed, visions of sordid tabloid pictures racing through her mind. Nihlus's voice – so clear it hurt – _No one will take you seriously. _The faces of the Council, the way they looked at her polite concern, they didn't so much listen as they did tolerate her, as if she she had dementia or some other mental illness. The Asari councilor's blue fingers moving, _"Ah yes, "Reapers."_ Nihlus's eyes, bottle green, the disappointment reaming through even from beyond the grave, throwing her twenty-six year old hand back at her, a scathing hiss,_"How dare you. I'm your teacher."  
_

"_You'd love that."  
_

Cold steel on her back, warm metal-leather skin on her breasts, her neck, the smoothness of armor, slippery rough scars sliding down her face, the slice of a plated mouth slipping down, down, nipping at her ear, the fingers that pushed her back, pinning her, the hard leather lips biting harder – the pressure the _no, no we can't, _and the claws and the scent of him and how tall, how tall, he blocked out the stars, the anxiety, all that lay beyond and there was only the present, and there was only his hands pushing and he leaned, he leaned, and _no_ and _no_ but she craved to say _yes_, she said no but meant _yes_, _don't stop_ – hard, harder – her hand on his gun and his fingers in her hair, pulling, his native tongue slipping those words in her as he kissed and _yes,_ no, _yes_ – tongue, tongue and his breath and the scent of him so different and strange and the long black nails sliding down, down, mind higher, mind floating above, evaporating, going, going – _don't stop, don't stop, don't stop – Archangel...Archangel._

_Archangel._

_Going, going._

_Gone._

"Shepard, what are you doing here?"

Garrus put his hand on Shepard's shoulder, and she jolted. She turned around, the coffee cup swinging in her hand, her fist flying but he caught it. She was breathing, her eyes were wide, wide like she had seen a ghost. Wide like she had awoken from a dream. Concern sparked across the turian's eyes, _what the hell?_

"What's wrong?" he asked, but she only stared, shaking.

He shook her, his face coming closer, searching her eyes.

"Shepard."

He held her hand tighter, peering into her like dark water. She wouldn't look at him. Her lips went to move, but said nothing.

Garrus took the coffee from her hand and set it on the railing. His eyes glanced around the crowd, and quietly, subtly, he led her around the corner to a docking platform, watching over her shoulder the whole time. Shepard's mascara spattered eyelids searched the shipyard as the turian gently coerced her atrophied body into movement, but no, no. She had missed her. Miranda. Miranda was gone.

"_What's wrong?"_

Her grey lenses found his. She swallowed.

She hadn't slept. Harbinger. The colonists. The Collectors. The blood on Thane's lips. The broken codex. Ghosts. So many ghosts. So many dead. Too many dead.

She hadn't slept.

"I think I'm losing my mind."

Six warm fingers, six steady fingers on two steady hands, a sniper's hands, closed around her ten. He leaned in close, his eyes and his voice blocking out the stars, blocking out the trickle of debilitating memory. The past faded. The future was gone. It was the present. She could still see him walking away from her on the Citadel to never become a spectre, the image of him fading as she died, the only thought in her mind of what could have been and what she'd done to him - and _Garrus, I'm so sorry_ but there he was. There he was, so close and his eyes and his voice and the warmth of him, and his mouth was moving and he was saying,

"The whole universe has has lost it's damn mind. Now tell me what's really wrong."

* * *

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